Two small fine line tattoos on wrists: a dandelion releasing seeds on one arm and a flock of birds on the other, both in black ink.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dandelion and flying birds on wrists

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two wrists are shown with small tattoos, one of a dandelion with seeds drifting off into the air and the other of a flock of birds in flight. The linework is thin and delicate, with minimal shading, and the ink is black. The composition is close and soft, with the hands clasped over a dark floral patterned fabric and woven friendship bracelets on one wrist.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Dandelion Seed Bird Flock Flying bird

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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

Nobody could agree on the dandelion clock. Bev said it was the summer we were thirteen and sat on the cricket pavilion steps blowing seeds at the Year Elevens, and I said it was the summer before that, and we nearly came to blows over a weed in front of the buffet table.

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Eighteen years on, the school hall still smelled of floor polish and sausage rolls, and the same cracked piano sat under the honours board. Bev had come up from Leeds with a laminated list of who had died, who had moved to Perth, and who had married the PE teacher. I had brought a paper bag of red elastic bands I'd found in the bottom of my mum's sewing box, which made Bev laugh more than anything else I'd done all evening.

At half nine the caretaker switched off the lights and we wandered out to the field where the pavilion still leaned like a tired dog. Bev knelt in the long grass and found a clock gone to seed, grey and round as a moon. She held it up to me. Go on, then, she said. So I blew, and the seeds lifted off the stalk and scattered over the fence, over the bus shelter, towards the flats where somebody's telly flickered blue.

Above us a line of starlings crossed the sky, stretching out and bending at the end like a sentence nobody wanted to finish. Bev counted them under her breath. Thirty-one, she said, same as the year we left. I told her she'd always had the wrong count, and she laughed so hard she had to sit down in the wet grass, and for a while neither of us wanted to be the first to get up.