Black and grey fine line botanical tattoo of daffodils on a person's upper back near the shoulder blade.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Daffodil sprig on upper back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a person's bare upper back, showing a fine line tattoo of daffodil flowers on thin stems with narrow leaves. The linework is delicate and mostly uniform, with light grey shading on the petals and leaves. The design rises diagonally from the lower shoulder blade towards the shoulder, against plain pale skin and a light background.

Fine line Botanical Back Daffodil Flower Stem Leaves

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, the fire's low and I've not got the breath to shout. Brother Anselm planted the bed along the south wall the year the bell cracked, and by March the narcissus were up in their hundreds, grey-green spears first, then the trumpets opening yellow as a dropped coin. Nobody in that house was allowed to dig them for the pot. Cook had been told twice, and the second time he went red to the ears, because a bulb looks for all the world like an onion if you're hungry and in a hurry.

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Sister Hild was the infirmarian, and she cut one sprig for the chapel each Sunday, one stem only, because the old abbot said flowers were for praising God and not for showing off. So when she came up the cellar steps one Lent with her apron full of stems, thin as hair and narrow-leafed, the cellarer Osric counted them out loud, the way he counted everything twice. Eleven. Eleven sprigs in a wet cloth, and the novice Tobias crying into the onion sack beside them.

She had found the boy sorting the cellar store by lantern light, a bulb in each hand, weighing them like coin. He'd meant to make a supper for the lay brothers working the fen drains. She didn't shout. She sat him on a barrel and showed him the flower, the trumpet, the stalk rising from the bulb in a line with no bend in it, then the onion, which smells of itself and comes apart in layers. "This one smells of nothing," she said, "and that's how you know to leave it in the ground."

Osric hung the eleven sprigs on a nail above the cellar door, where the light came in grey off the fen. Every spring after, the narcissus came up along the south wall, and nobody dug them, and the boy Tobias was the first to bring the flowers in, one stem to the altar and never more.