Black and grey fine line tattoo of a daffodil with a long stem and two narrow leaves, on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Daffodil tattoo on the forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A daffodil in full bloom is shown with its trumpet centre and six petals, drawn with a long stem and two narrow leaves that trail down the arm. The linework is fine and even, with soft grey shading inside the petals and along the leaves to suggest depth. The tattoo is in black and grey on pale skin, set against a dark, out-of-focus background.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Daffodil Flower Stem Leaves

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

You have the trowel in your right hand and the sack in your left when Walter Pym leans on the gate of plot nine and tells you, not unkindly, that you are planting too close to the wall. The bulbs are the old double-trumpet sort his wife bought from a seed merchant in Wakefield, and he has been hoarding the leftovers in a biscuit tin ever since. You say the wall gets the afternoon sun. He says it has been getting the afternoon sun since 1962, which is precisely the trouble.

Keep reading

You plant them anyway, six inches down, pointed end up, as the leaflet says. Through the frost the shoots push up like green pencils, and in March the first bloom opens on the wall side, pale yellow, trumpet flared, looking faintly surprised at itself. On the third morning Walter appears with a jam jar of cut stems from his own border and sets it on your upturned bucket. By noon the jar has slumped and every stem has gone limp.

"Daffodil sap," he says, lifting one out, "poisons whatever it sits beside. They have to stand alone a day before you mix them. Didn't you know?" You did not. He nods as though this confirms a theory about people who came to the allotments from flats in town. Then he says, more quietly, that his wife kept daffodils in a jug on the windowsill, never with the tulips, and he had thought it a fussy habit until it was too late to ask her why.

You fill a jug from the outside tap, set the one bloom that survived on the wall, and leave it alone for the afternoon. When you come back at dusk, Walter has left his biscuit tin on the path beside your bucket. Inside, under the loose bulbs, is a note in pencil: plant these where the sun gets to them first.