Colour tattoo of a yellow and orange daffodil with green leaves and a long stem on skin, in a traditional botanical style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Daffodil tattoo in yellow and orange

Traditional · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows a daffodil bloom with a frilled, orange-centred trumpet and several yellow petals, on a long green stem with narrow leaves. Bold black outlines define the petals and leaves, and the shading blends orange into the yellow. The flower sits diagonally across the frame against plain skin.

Traditional Botanical Daffodil Flower Leaves Stem

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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

Sit nearer, all of you, the fire only warms the side that faces it. No, Maddy, I'll not tell the ghost part first. You want the spring the frost wouldn't leave Harrowmere, and you'll have it the proper way.

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The queen of Harrowmere kept a garden of white roses that never once bloomed, and a court that called the cold God's own sulking. Her gardener's boy, Pell, was thirteen and had no business with a spade in such weather. But he carried a stubborn bulb in his coat, dug from the reed marsh in the east where the sun comes up first, and every night he set it on the sill and talked to it like a dog.

One morning a green stem had pushed up through the rime, and on its top sat a bloom: six yellow petals swept back like sailcloth, and a trumpet at its heart frilled at the edge and burning orange at the throat, as if someone had dipped the middle in the last of the sunset. The steward saw it first and cried witchcraft. The queen came out in her furs, looked a long while, and ordered the thing cut and burned. Pell knelt on the cold flags and would not take his hands from the stem.

The queen was quiet for a time. Then she asked the boy what it was called. He said it had no name, so she named it after her grandmother, who had also been yellow about the hem and stubborn to the bone. By noon the thaw had crept down the lower terraces, and the queen was still crouched in the mud with her furs ruined, counting petals and telling the steward to mind his tongue.