Black and grey fine line tattoo of a dandelion seed head on a stem with drifting seeds, on the inner forearm near the wrist.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dandelion seed head tattoo on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small black dandelion seed head on a thin stem sits on the inner wrist, with a few seeds drifting away to the right. The linework is fine and delicate, with the seed head shown in soft, fine strokes and minimal shading. The photograph is black and white with a shallow depth of field, so the blurred fingers in the background frame the tattoo.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Dandelion Seed head Seed Stem Wrist

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

Old Hesketh had kept the bees at the top of Cold Orchard for forty years, and in all that time nobody in the village had seen him cry. So when his grandson Tam came running down between the apple rows in August, shouting that the old man was sitting in the long grass and would not get up, half the parish went up the hill behind him, expecting the worst.

Keep reading

He was not ill. He sat with a dandelion clock cupped in his palm, the white head gone soft and round, and he was blowing on it very gently, one breath at a time. Each breath lifted a handful of seeds and sent them out over the drystone wall toward the lowland. "My wife used to do this," he said, without looking up. "She said every seed was a message going somewhere. I promised her I would count them all before the wind took the last one. I never got past nine hundred."

Tam knelt in the grass beside him and counted with him. They reached four hundred and six when the air turned and a single seed came drifting back over the wall, slow as a question, and settled on the stem by Hesketh's boot. He did not reach for it. He watched it sit there, perfectly still, while the bees went about their business in the hives behind them.

"Well," Hesketh said at last, and he laughed, a rusty sound nobody had heard in years. "That one's come home. Leave it be. We'll let it take root where it likes." When the bell rang for supper down in the village, none of them moved, and the seed stayed exactly where it had landed.