Black and grey dandelion with seeds drifting away, tattooed on the inner wrist of a raised hand against green foliage.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dandelion seeds on a wrist

Botanical · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single dandelion clock sits near the bottom of the design, with its stem running down towards the wrist and loose seeds drifting up and away across the skin. The seeds are drawn in fine, delicate lines, while the seed head is softly shaded in grey to give it depth. The ink is entirely black and grey on pale skin, and the blurred green background keeps the focus on the wrist.

Botanical Fine line Forearm Dandelion Seed Wildflower Plant

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Snow had sealed the Hollin Gate road for four days, and Mrs Pardoe had stopped pretending the cellar stores would last until the thaw. Nell counted tins by candlelight while the guests below argued over cards. The inn smelled of wet wool and scorched toast, and her grandfather's ledger lay open on the bar, its last entry a list of names nobody had come back to claim.

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Behind the cask shelf she found a jam jar with its lid punched full of holes, and inside it a dandelion clock gone grey with age, every seed still clinging. Someone had picked it in high summer and forgotten it. She carried it to the window, where frost had feathered the glass. A draught slid under the sash and the seeds stirred, lifting a few silver threads into the room.

The traveller by the fire, a surveyor called Ashdown who had walked in off the moor with his boots tied in string, watched her over his tea. "My mother used to do that," he said. "Blow them and make a wish for every one that flew." Nell said she had no wishes left that the snow hadn't already taken. He laughed, then went quiet, and she saw him counting the seeds on the sill.

Next morning the plough came grinding up the valley and the road opened like a seam. Nell unscrewed the jar and carried it to the door. Ashdown shouldered his pack and stood beside her, and she let the seeds go one breath at a time. They rose over the drift like a thousand small wishes that had been waiting all winter to be let out.