Two black and grey death's head hawkmoth tattoos in a traditional style sit on the upper arms of two people, one larger than the other.

Death's head hawkmoth on upper arm, matching pair

Traditional · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

Two arms show matching death's head hawkmoth tattoos, with bold black outlines, solid black fills and grey shading on the wings and body. The larger moth sits on the upper arm of the left arm, and a smaller version sits on the upper arm of the right arm, both set against a plain, softly blurred background.

Traditional Upper arm Moth Insect Matching tattoo

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

By the time the Margaret Ellen clears the harbour wall at Lowestoft, the moth has been in the wheelhouse for two days, wedged behind the chart drawer with its wings folded like an old pair of gloves. Uncle Sid swears it came aboard in the bread bag. You know it came for the honey tin on the shelf above the kettle, because death's head hawkmoths will walk a mile for sweetness, and Sid has never once let his tea go unsweetened.

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Out past the Holm, the herring come up silver under the deck lamp and the crew work the nets in a rhythm nobody needs to speak. Sid won't have the moth touched. The skull on its back looks up at you from the dark when you lift the drawer, two hollow eyes and a dusty grin. He says it squeaks when it's frightened, like a hinge, and that a boat with one aboard always comes home a man short. Nobody laughs. Nobody asks what you think, so you say nothing and watch it shuffle across the chart toward the light.

Then the wind backs north-east and the sea gets up, and for six hours there is only the pump, the tiller and Sid shouting numbers into the spray. When the sky goes grey over Pakefield, the moth is sitting on the rail beside your hand, wings open like a fan. You coax it onto one finger and lean out over the water. It lifts away low across the swell, and the first gulls are already circling the harbour, calling the boats in.