Colour botanical tattoo of pink roses, rosebuds, a fern frond and red berries across the upper back of a person with short hair.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Botanical bouquet of roses and fern on upper back

Botanical · Back · Colour · Photo

A colour tattoo covers the upper back and shows pink roses and rosebuds, green leaves, a dark fern frond, and clusters of red berries on thin stems. The linework is fine and the shading is soft, giving the petals and leaves some depth. The arrangement spreads in a loose diagonal bouquet from the left shoulder blade across to the right, with the subject's back shown from behind against a white wall.

Botanical Traditional Back Rose Rosebud Fern Berry Leaves Flower Bouquet

Find an artist for this

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

Mind the step, it's loose, always has been since the council touched the lifts. Sit down there by the bins where the light comes through. Right, so. Nineteen floors up, on the wind side of Hollins House, there was a woman called Irene Basford who grew roses in two old paint tubs, because the ground had been concreted over before she was born and nobody had ever asked the ground what it wanted.

Keep reading

Her balcony looked over the old railway cutting, where the brambles had come back thick after the line was lifted. Every spring she went down with a carrier bag and came back up with cuttings, rosehips, a fern frond pinched from a crack in the retaining wall, and once a sprig of cranberry she swore had been growing out of a tyre. The neighbours thought she was soft. The man in 19C complained about greenfly drifting across his washing. Irene only said her roses were doing better than the people, which was true enough.

Then one February the lift broke for three weeks, and her daughter came up the stairs every Sunday with shopping and a face like a shut door. Irene stopped going down to the cutting. She sat at the window and drew what she had on the back of a gas bill, in pencil, pressing harder each time the wind rattled the glass.

In April the daughter found the drawings and asked why she'd bothered. Irene held one up to the light. The roses were fat and foolish, the fern a clean black stroke, and the berries sat in their little clusters as if they had all the time in the world. 'So I don't forget what I was growing,' she said. And because the lift had finally come back on that very morning, they rode down together to look for the bramble.