Black and grey botanical tattoo of a vine with leaves and a rose-like bloom wrapping around a forearm, shown in a black and white photograph.

Botanical vine wrapping a forearm

Botanical · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A trailing vine with leaves, buds and a open rose-like flower winds around the outside of the forearm, starting near the elbow and ending close to the wrist. The linework is fine and stems are drawn with thin outlines, while the leaves and petals use soft grey shading to create depth. The photograph is black and white with a plain fabric background, which keeps focus on the tattoo and the arm.

Botanical Fine line Forearm Vine Leaves Rose Flower Bud Foliage

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rose had been planted the spring before old Mr Hale died, and by the week of the wedding it had got away from everyone. It ran up the south wall of the glasshouse, over the gutter and back down again, a trailing green rope with buds hanging from it like loose change. Margaret wanted it cut back to the brick. I told her it would flower for the marquee if we left it alone, and she looked at me as if I were a forecast she didn't trust.

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I went up the ladder with my secateurs and a ball of soft twine in my apron pocket. The wood was grey near the root and green at the tips, and where the stems crossed they had fused a little, so I worked them apart with my thumbs. Under the leaves were the buds, tight as fists, and one bloom already open, its petals loose and blown at the edges. I counted six thorns before I found a clear length to tie to the wire.

Margaret's niece came out in her coat to see what the fuss was. She was getting married on Saturday to a lad from the mill town who could not tell a hellebore from a dock leaf, and she wanted to know if the rose would be ready. I said it would be ready when it decided to be, which is true of most brides and most roses. She laughed and asked me to save one for her buttonhole, and I said I would, though I knew the open one would be past its best by morning.

On the Saturday I cut the open bloom at dawn, wrapped its stem in a damp paper towel, and carried it across the yard before the caterers were up. Nobody counted the roses on the wall. The bud I left on the vine, tied to the wire with a loop of twine, and it opened on the Sunday while the marquee was still standing, one pale petal at a time, as if nobody had told it the party was over.