Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Botanical flower sprig on a forearm

Botanical · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A sprig of flowers and leaves, with several open blooms and slender stems, is tattooed along the outer arm from near the elbow towards the wrist. The linework is dark and fairly bold, with some areas of solid black on the leaves and light grey shading on the petals. The subject wears a white t-shirt and white shorts, and the plain pale wall behind her keeps the focus on the tattoo.

Botanical Forearm Flower Leaves Botanical Stem Blossom Sprig

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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

The frost came into the glasshouse before four, and you are on your knees under the staging with a dented tin of pencils, trying to get the last of the stocks into the cold frame while the light still lies pale across the yard. Your father's boots are by the door where he left them on Tuesday. Nobody has moved them. The ledger on the potting bench is open at December, his capitals leaning backwards as if walking into wind, columns of seed prices and the dates the carrier came.

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You find the drawing at the back, under the last page of sums. A sprig of something with open trumpet blooms and long narrow stems, two leaves blackened in with the side of the pencil, the petals left almost white. Below it he has written, in the same backward hand, "For Ellen, if she asks." Ellen hasn't asked. She is in Leeds now, sending texts about rent and nothing about the farm, and you have been keeping the glasshouse heated on the diesel money that should have gone on the boiler.

You copy the sprig onto the seed order form, slowly, because your hands are too cold to do it well, and the lines come out thicker than his. Outside, the wind shifts and the polythene on the far house cracks like a sail. You think about the merchant in Lincoln who stopped replying, and how he always signed off with a flourish that looked like a small stem with a bud on top.

In the morning there is a white rim of frost on every blade of the cold frame, and under the stocks, where the soil is still dark, a single green shoot has pushed up the width of a fingernail. You crouch beside it with the ledger open on your knee, and for the first time since Tuesday you write something that isn't a sum. You put down the date and the weather, and then, underneath, in your own hand: First one through.