Colour botanical tattoo of white daisies, fern fronds and a green fiddlehead on a forearm, in a traditional style with bold black outlines.

Daisies and fern foliage on a forearm

Botanical · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A bouquet of two white daisies with yellow centres sits alongside a large fern frond, a green fiddlehead curl, a sprig of small oval leaves and several darker leaves. The design uses bold black outlines with flat green fills and soft highlights on the petals and foliage. The motifs are arranged in a compact cluster that fills the frame, with a mix of greens, white and touches of orange in the leaf tips.

Botanical Traditional Forearm Daisy Fern Leaves Sprig Flower Foliage Bouquet

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Wren, the gulls have had the bins over again and Mrs Pollard in number four says the bathwater is the colour of weak tea, but I must tell you about the ferns, because you will not believe what the cliff path has given us this week. Mr Okafor, who has the room over the porch and walks the coast before breakfast, came in with an armful of bracken he had cut back from the steps. Tucked among the fronds were two daisies still fat with dew, and a sprig of silver-leaved something he swore was sea sage. I put the lot in the blue jug on the hall table and the whole house smelt of cut grass until lunchtime.

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The odd part is one frond that had not yet opened. It was a tight green curl, like the head of a violin, and I sat on the bottom stair with it in my palm for longer than I care to admit. I thought of Dad sketching one on the back of the rent book, the spiral going round and round until he ran out of margin and started a second beneath it. He always said the fern unrolls the way a person learns to speak, one slow turn at a time, and nobody can hurry it.

Last night the wind swung north and the sea stood up against the groyne like a crowd at a funeral that had forgotten its hymns. I lay awake listening to the boards creak and thought about the big dark frond on the mantelpiece, how it had gone from pale to a deep olive while it dried, and how nobody had thrown it out. This morning I found Mr Okafor in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, quietly pressing the last daisy flat between two pages of the Radio Times. He did not look up. He only said the flowers would keep, if you let them dry where the light was kind.

So I have hung the bunch upside down behind the scullery door where the light is kind, and I am keeping the curl in the tin with the buttons. Come at Easter. Bring your good boots, and mind the fourth step, it still has no sense of humour.

Love, Ruth