Close crop of a woman in a sage camisole holding a poppy mug, with a fine line botanical flower tattoo on her upper arm and a small star on her finger.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Botanical flower tattoo on upper arm

Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A woman in a sage camisole and black jeans holds a cream mug printed with red poppies, with her face cropped out of the frame. A cluster of flowers and leaves in dark grey shading sits on the upper arm, with fine linework extending above it, and a small star tattoo is visible on one finger. The soft, neutral background and natural light keep the focus on the tattoos.

Fine line Botanical Upper arm Hand Flower Leaves Star Linework Poppy

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

Ysolde climbed the goat track to Carrow Keep every morning that spring, because her grandmother said the poppies there were the only thing in the valley that grew without being asked. The keep had lost its north tower to lightning and its great hall to nine winters of rain, but the walls still stood the way an old man keeps his hat on in church. Red flowers pushed through every crack in the mortar, and the leaves beneath them were dark as wet slate.

Keep reading

She had been cutting stems for three weeks before she noticed the star. It hung low over the broken arch at dusk, a single white point that did not move with the others. When she climbed the rubble to look, she found a flat stone in the nettles, carved with a sprig of leaves and a seed head, and a name worn too smooth to read.

Her grandmother knew the name. The lord of Carrow had kept a gardener who could coax anything into bloom in frost, and when the gardener asked for a wage the lord could not pay, the lord shut the gate and let the winter do the rest. The gardener never left the keep. His flowers did, and they had been spreading down the valley ever since.

Ysolde carried the stone down the track inside her apron. That night she set it on the hearth, and the poppies on the walls turned their heads toward the valley like a crowd turning to a door that has finally opened. In the morning the gate stood wide, and a thin man with soil under his nails was kneeling in the nettles, weeping over leaves he had thought were lost.