Grey shaded daisy tattoo on the shoulder with fine script lettering running down the upper arm, the word sunshine picked out in yellow.

Daisy and script on a shoulder

Botanical · Shoulder · Mixed · Photo

A shaded daisy with black outlines sits on the shoulder, with its petals rendered in grey tones and a light centre. Fine script reading you are my sunshine runs down the upper arm like a stem, with the final word in yellow ink. The greys dominate the composition, and the photograph is taken indoors against a plain background.

Botanical Lettering Shoulder Upper arm Daisy Flower Script Lettering Sunshine

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Right, sit down where the draught can't reach you, and mind the kettle. This is about my aunt Bet, who kept the lock-keeper's cottage at Hollin Bridge the winter the canal froze to the bottom. She had a voice like a rusty gate, and every morning she sang the same song while she scraped ice off the windows, the one about the sunshine and the man who took it away. Nobody in the village could stand it. Nobody asked her to stop.

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Now, the daisies. In March, before anything else woke up, Bet went out along the towpath with a trowel and dug up every stray daisy she could find, roots and all, because she said a daisy in a hedge was a daisy nobody was looking after. She carried them home in a tin bucket and set them on the sill of the back room, facing the glass, where the light came in thin and pale. The old men at the Crown laughed about it. The daisies didn't laugh. They leaned, one after another, towards the window, the way I've seen them do ever since.

When the thaw came, the canal ran high and brown, and Bet's bucket was empty, because she had planted every flower along the lock gate. The last one she kept back. She told me she was saving it for whoever needed telling that the sun was still in the room, even with the curtains drawn. Nobody ever came for it. So she wrote the line on a card in yellow pencil, the colour of the first warm week, and tucked it into the bucket's handle.

I still have the bucket. Mind the third stair, it wobbles, and there's a pot of daisies on the windowsill upstairs that I keep watered for her, facing out, the way she taught me.