Black and grey dotwork tattoo of dandelion seed heads and grass inside a circle on an upper arm.

Dandelions and grass in a dotwork circle

Dotwork · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A circular tattoo shows dandelion seed heads on thin stems above a band of grass, with loose seeds drifting across the upper part of the circle. The design is built from stippled dots, with denser dotwork shading along the lower edge to suggest ground and depth. The image is black and white and shows the tattoo centred on the arm, with a knitted sleeve at the top edge of the frame.

Dotwork Botanical Upper arm Dandelion Seed Grass Circle Wildflower

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nell had been up since half two, and by four the bakery smelled the way it always did before the light came, of yeast, scorched sugar and the cold metal of the proving racks. She shaped the last batch of cobs on the floured bench, pressing each one down with the heel of her hand until the dough gave up its tension and sat still.

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Flour hung in the lamplight above the bench. Each time the back door sighed open it lifted and turned, slow as sediment, and she watched it drift toward the dark glass the way she had once watched dandelion clocks on the allotment at Hollin Lane, her brother Tomasz blowing until his cheeks ached, the seeds going off over the rhubarb in a loose, unstoppable cloud. Their father used to say every seed was a loaf nobody had yet been asked to bake. She had never understood him and had stopped asking.

At twenty past five she carried the bran sack out to the yard. The bins were there, and the wet cardboard, and between the paving slabs a clump of dandelions had come up overnight, bright and stubborn. Beside them stood one seed head, perfectly round, grey as ash and not yet blown. She had not planted it. Nothing out here had been planted by anyone.

She did not pick it. She stood with the sack against her hip until the sky over the car park turned the colour of weak tea, then went back inside and slid the first tray into the oven. Through the kitchen door she could still see the flour turning in the lamplight, not yet settled, going nowhere in particular.