Black and grey botanical tattoo of a daisy with curling vines wrapping from the ankle up the side of the leg.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Daisy and swirl vine tattoo on an ankle

Botanical · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A large daisy with layered petals and a dotted centre sits on the outside of the ankle, with a curling vine of scrollwork and small dots running down toward the foot and up the leg. The linework is fine and dark, with soft grey shading inside the petals. The tattoo is shown in close focus on a bare foot resting on a light tiled floor.

Botanical Fine line Ankle Daisy Flower Swirl Vine Scrollwork

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The seed tin came up from the Ferriers' cellar with rust round its lid and a smell of wet paper. Inside, folded in brown envelopes, were packets of the same white-rayed daisy, each one dated in Mrs Ferrier's upright hand, the last of them from the spring she stopped answering her door. Nobody on Caddle Quay had grown that daisy since the war. I carried the tin home on the back of my bicycle and set it on the sill above the sink, where the light came off the harbour in ropes.

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I sowed them in trays in the potting shed behind the chandlery, mostly to keep my hands busy while the boats were out. The daisies came up slowly and then all at once, and with them a vine I hadn't planted, its seedlings tangled and curling towards the warm side of the wall as if they had somewhere to be. Tobias Crane, who rows out to the buoys every morning, stopped at the gate one afternoon and asked why the lane smelt of cut stems. I told him it was the vine. He said vines were for churchyards, and went off whistling anyway.

The envelope had one more line on the back, written small: plant them where the tide can reach. I thought she meant a pot on a step. But the daisies had other ideas, and when they were big enough I carried them down to the sea wall, where the spray comes over in winter and salt crusts the railings. I dug them in between the stones and watched the rain take the topsoil away and leave the roots bare to the wind.

In July the vine had run the whole length of the wall and down the steps to the slipway. The daisies stood in a row with dark centres like pressed ink, and every boat coming in on the evening tide passed beneath them, close enough to touch. Tobias lifted one hand from the tiller as he went by, and I swear one of the flowers leaned out after him.