Full back tattoo of a gnarled cherry blossom tree with pink flowers, grey mountains and a pale blue sky, placed across the back.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Cherry blossom tree across a back

Botanical · Back · Colour · Photo

A large tattoo covers most of a person's back, showing a twisted tree trunk and branches heavy with pink cherry blossom flowers. Behind the tree, soft grey mountain shapes and a pale blue wash suggest a sky, with the trunk and branches shaded in browns and greys. The composition is centred on the spine and fills the full width of the back, with colour ink used throughout.

Botanical Back Cherry blossom Tree Branches Flower Mountain Sky

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The surveyors had painted a red cross on the old cherry tree at Hollin Cross before Ruth Abernethy had finished her second cup of tea. She stood on the platform with the kettle still warm in her other hand and watched the man in the orange jacket measure the trunk with a tape, then look up at the grey shoulder of the mountain behind it, as if the tree and the peak were two items on the same bill.

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The tree had been there longer than the station. Her father used to say the first stationmaster planted it to give passengers something to look at while they waited for trains that never ran on time. Every April the branches went pink all the way down to the signal box, and every April someone from the railway wrote a letter asking whether the blossom was a hazard to the points.

She took the surveyor a cup of tea, because it was that or shout, and asked him to come back once the blossom was out. He laughed, but he looked at the branches for a long moment, the way you look at a face you think you have seen before. Then he said the line could bend a few yards east if somebody signed a form, and the form needed the stationmaster's name on it, which was hers.

The trains went on passing through. In May the petals came down across the rails and the drivers slowed for them without being asked. Ruth kept the form in a drawer under the timetables, unsigned, and every spring she walked out to the tree and counted the flowers on the lowest bough, the way her father had, until the number grew too large to count.