Small fine line botanical tattoo of a chamomile sprig in black ink on the inner upper arm, above the elbow.

Chamomile sprig on upper arm

Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A small sprig of chamomile-style flowers with three daisy-like heads on thin stems and feathery leaves, drawn in black ink. The linework is fine and even, with little or no shading, so the design reads as a clean outline. The photograph is in black and white, with the arm raised against a dark background and a purple top visible at the side.

Fine line Botanical Upper arm Flower Sprig Leaves Stem Daisy

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

The village hall smells of urn tea and floor polish, and you are already regretting the name badge someone has stuck to your jumper with a strip of Sellotape. Across the room, Margaret Pollard, who once sat behind you in chemistry and kept a sprig of something green in her pencil case, is holding a paper cup and pretending not to look at you.

Keep reading

Nobody at school believed the weeds on the far side of the netball court were worth anything. Margaret picked them every lunchtime, those little daisy heads with their hollow yellow middles, and dried them on the library radiator until the room smelled like a hay barn. She sold the bags for ten pence to the Year Sevens with tummy aches before tests. You bought one, and she never once let you pay. When she left for the grammar in Norwich she pressed a tin into your hand with a lid that didn't quite fit.

You cross the hall now, and she says the tea is stewed. You say you still have the tin. She laughs, then stops, because you have kept it all these years, and when you finally prised it open last winter there was one sprig inside, brittle as tissue, its feathery leaves gone the colour of old newspaper.

"Keep it," she says. "It was only ever a weed." You take her hand, and outside the window the real chamomile is coming up through the cracks in the tarmac of the old netball court, as if nobody had ever told it what it was worth.