Black fine line outline tattoo of a dove in flight on the side of a person's waist, above a woven belt.

Dove in flight on the side of the waist

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A single dove is shown in flight, drawn as a simple black outline with feathered wing tips and a long trailing tail. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, and the ink has a slightly soft, faded edge. The tattoo sits off-centre on the bare skin of the lower flank, with a brown woven belt and denim waistband cropping the bottom of the frame.

Fine line Other Dove Bird Outline Wing

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The basket had sat on the lychgate wall since half past eleven, and by the time the bells stopped the bird inside had decided it wanted nothing to do with anybody. Ruth stood on the gravel in her borrowed shoes, one hand on the lid, while the guests bunched up behind her with their order of service folded into fans against the sun. Her brother Danny was already grinning at the photographer. The vicar had said doves were fine but pigeons were not, and Danny had driven to a loft outside Keighley to buy the difference.

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When Ruth lifted the lid the dove did not fly. It sat on the wicker rim, grey and white, and looked at the crowd the way a bored customer looks at a shop window. Somebody's child shrieked. Joanne, the bride, laughed so hard she had to hold her veil away from her face. Ruth tipped the basket further and the bird stepped out onto the wall, then onto the lychgate beam, then up the slate roof of the vestry in four small hops that made the whole congregation groan.

She climbed the ladder that the verger had left against the vestry wall. Her heels were in one hand and the rungs were warm and gritty. At the top the dove was waiting for her, tail feathers trailing over the gutter like a ribbon that had come loose from something better. It let her cup it in both palms. Its heart went against her fingers, quick and light, and she thought of her mother's handwriting on the card she had sent with the money, the single line that said only: let something go.

She lifted her hands over the churchyard and opened them. The dove dropped, caught itself, and rose over the wall towards the river, its wings cutting the blue into long pale strokes. Below her, Joanne was shouting something and waving her bouquet, and Danny was pointing at the sky as if he had arranged the whole thing himself. Ruth stayed on the roof a while longer, holding nothing at all.