Colour botanical tattoo of a pink chrysanthemum, white daisy and purple lilies on a person's upper back and shoulder.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Chrysanthemum, daisy and lily on a shoulder

Botanical · Shoulder · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows a cluster of pink chrysanthemum blooms in the centre, a white daisy with a yellow centre at the lower left, and purple lily-like flowers with stems and buds rising above. Dark outlines define the petals and stems, with soft shading in pink and lilac inside the forms. The design sits on the shoulder blade area, with plain skin and blonde hair framing the top of the image.

Botanical Shoulder Chrysanthemum Daisy Lily Flower Floral Bud Stem

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the gate, love, it sticks in a hard frost, and you'll want both hands for that bucket. Leave the lamp where it is. The light off the snow will show us the way. You asked how Nell Harrow kept the mill field, and that's a tale for a cold night, so pull your chair close to the range.

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Nell had three things she loved and no sense of the calendar. The chrysanthemums came up in the back lean-to every October, pink as a cut ham, though nobody had planted them since her mother died. The daisies grew along the lane where the verge was never cut. And the purple lilies, which she'd pinched from the vicar's wife's border one dark July, stood tall as a man by the byre door. Three seasons, three ways of standing, and not one of them minded the others.

Tobias Greave wanted the mill field for his dairy, and he came up the lane with papers and a solicitor's pen. Nell didn't argue. She cut every bloom she had, a great armful, carried them down to the market hall in Kendal through the sleet, and set them out on the trestle beside the cheese. Folk stopped. A man in a checked cap asked what season it was supposed to be. Nell said, 'Whichever one you're standing in when you look.'

The papers never got signed. The clerk had a daughter who'd wanted flowers for her wedding and couldn't afford them, and by the time he'd walked home he was carrying a dozen daisies, a fistful of mums and a lily wrapped in wet newspaper. Mind the stile on your way out. The field's still ours, and the lilies come back every summer, whether anyone asks them to or not.