Black and grey fine line tattoo of a feather hanging from a knotted cord bracelet around the inner wrist, with the hand raised in a fist.

Feather bracelet tattoo on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A feather hangs from a knotted cord that wraps around the inner wrist, drawn as a band with a simple knot at the centre. The feather is shaded in grey with fine strokes along its vane, while the cord uses crisp outlines. The ink is black and grey on a plain background, with the wrist and raised fist filling most of the frame.

Fine line Forearm Feather Cord Bracelet Knot

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Now sit close, because the lamps are going out along the Mersey one at a time, and a story like this needs a bit of dark to walk about in. Nell Harrow came down to the Pier Head with a length of tarred cord knotted round her wrist, the way her father had taught her to hold on to things in a crowd. Tucked into the middle of the knot, where it sat hard as a walnut, was a grey feather no longer than a thumb.

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Everybody on the landing knew the pigeon it came from. Old Teague kept a loft above the chandler's, and he swore on his mother's grave that the bird with the torn left wing could beat the ferry across the river in fog. The night the mist came in thick enough to swallow the funnels, Teague pressed a rolled slip into Nell's palm and said, go on, lass, the bird knows the way. She didn't send it. She pulled a feather from the bird's breast when it nipped her thumb, knotted the cord through its quill, and kept the slip in her coat.

The slip said only: The boat is not coming. Come home by the iron bridge. Her father's hand, cramped and hurried, the way he wrote when the tide was turning under him. So she went. She walked the whole length of the river with the feather swinging at her wrist, counting the lamps as she passed them, because her father used to say a lamp is only a promise somebody kept.

At the iron bridge a man in a wet oilskin was waiting with his cap in his hands, and she didn't need to ask him anything. The feather kept swinging, grey against the grey water, and the fog thinned away behind her like a sheet pulled off a bed.