Black and white photo of a fine dotted constellation tattoo with a single star, sitting on the upper chest near the collarbone and shoulder.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dotted constellation on upper chest

Dotwork · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a dotted line tattoo forming a constellation-style shape, with a small star-like mark at the top point. The ink is built from small, evenly spaced dots and fine connecting lines, with a few larger dots at the corners. The image is black and white, and the skin is shown in soft focus around the collarbone and shoulder.

Dotwork Fine line Chest Constellation Star Dot

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit yourself nearer the range, you're letting the cold in with every breath. Aye, that's the one. My grandfather called it the Gate, because that's what it looked like to him from the top field, four posts and a hinge hung up in the black. He'd stand at the wall of an evening with his pipe gone out and say, there's the Gate, Tom, shut it or the ewes will be off over the tops.

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It was the winter the beck froze to the bottom and the snow lay on the Fell for eleven weeks. Forty-three ewes were up on the high ground when the blizzard came in off the west, and my grandfather went after them with a lantern and a length of rope, and Ned tied to the other end because Ned was twelve and would not be left behind. The lantern was out by the second wall. Ned told it later that the snow came down so thick you could not see your own boots, only the light at the top of the sky, small and steady, which never once wandered.

They found the ewes bunched in the lee of the old sheepfold, every one of them alive, breath rising like a kettle's steam. My grandfather swore he counted them three times, and then he counted the stars over the Gate and got the same number, which he said was a sign and my grandmother said was only arithmetic.

When he died we buried him up top with his head to the east, so the Gate would be the first thing he saw. Every winter since I walk up at dusk to check it is still there, four posts and a hinge in the black. It always is. Mind the step on the way down, and shut the door behind you, love.