Black line tattoo of an angel wing beside the script words Angels never leave, They're always at your side, in fine lettering on the side of a body.

Angel wing and script quote on the side of the body

Lettering · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A single wing outline sits beside two lines of cursive script reading "Angels never leave / They're always at your side". The linework is fine and even, with the feathers drawn as open outlines and the lettering flowing diagonally across the skin. The tattoo is in black ink only, shown against dark fabric and pale skin.

Lettering Fine line Other Angel Wing Script Quote Feather

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dad had the ewes in the top shed by the first week of February, because the frost had come down hard off the fells and the lambs were coming wrong. I was the one who sat up with them. Nobody asked me to. I simply took the stool, the paraffin lamp and the old tin of iodine and went out after the late feed, when the yard lights had gone off and the only sound was the water trough cracking its skin.

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The third night, a barn owl came through the hole where the slate had slipped. It hung in the lamplight over the pen like something cut from paper, all pale breast and dark eyes, then dropped onto the hay bale beside me and settled. I didn't move. Lambs were arriving slowly, one hind leg first, and I had my hands full of a ewe who'd been fighting since dusk. When the little one finally slid out, limp and grey, I rubbed it with straw until it sneezed, and the owl watched every bit of it.

Mam's card was still tacked above the kitchen sink, the one with the robin on it, the words in her looping hand: Angels never leave, they're always at your side. She had copied it from a funeral sheet years ago, and she'd said it to me the morning after Gran died, as if it were a weather forecast. I'd thought it was soft. I didn't think so that night.

When I went in at dawn, a white feather lay on the sill of the lambing pen, cupped in the frost like a dropped letter. I put it in my coat pocket and kept it there. The lamb was on its feet by then, butting at its mother, and the owl had gone back up into the rafters, where I could just make out one wing folded against the beam.