Small fine-line black tattoo of a dandelion seed head with a thin stem on the inner forearm near the wrist, against a cream textured rug.

Dandelion seed tattoo on the wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small tattoo of a dandelion seed head with a thin, tapering stem, drawn in black ink on the inner forearm near the wrist. The seed head is shown as a soft cluster of fine, feathery lines, while the stem is a single slim line ending in a small dot. The pale skin and cream textured rug in the background give the photograph a soft, neutral composition.

Fine line Forearm Dandelion Seed head Stem

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The wind came off Hobb's Common the morning Aunt Ivy agreed to sell the cottage, and it lifted the dandelion clocks from the verge in one grey breath. I was sitting on the lych-gate wall with my boots dangling, sulking about the move, and the seeds went past me like a congregation leaving church. Ivy used to say you had to blow three times and the number that came out was the hour. She never told me what the hour was for.

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I found the stalk in the biscuit tin on her windowsill, dry and brittle, its head gone bald except for a few stubborn strands. She had been keeping it, I realised, for longer than I had been alive. "Keep the last one back," she told me once, "for when you need to go somewhere and still come home." I had taken it for the sort of thing old women say when they have run out of useful advice.

On the last afternoon I carried the stalk down to the stream at the edge of Thorne Wood, where the alders lean over the water and the path gives up being a path. I held it up to the light, and a breath of air found it. Three seeds came loose, then the rest in a rush, turning over the reeds towards the far bank where nobody had ever built a thing.

I stood there with an empty stalk and felt faintly foolish, the way you do after making a wish you have already forgotten. Then a single seed caught on the cuff of my jumper and stayed there, feathered and patient. I understood that Ivy had never meant me to keep the stalk at all. I walked back up the lane with it still clinging to my sleeve, and I did not brush it off.