Black fine line botanical tattoo on a wrist with a rose bud, leaves, tendrils and a dotted line, plus a small mark on the hand.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fine line botanical tattoo on wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A fine line botanical design rises from the wrist, topped by a rose bud with pointed leaves, sprigs of buds and curling tendrils. A vertical row of small dots runs beneath it, and a partial star-like flower sits at the right edge of the frame. The black ink is set against pale, evenly lit skin on a plain white background.

Fine line Botanical Dotwork Forearm Hand Rose Rose bud Leaves Sprig Tendril Dot Flower

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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

Sit closer, the lot of you, the range is going out and I'll not shout over the wind. You want to know why the Pratt boy never left Low Fold? I'll tell you, though you'll not like the ending. It starts with the seed tin on my mother's dresser, the one with the dented lid that she kept for what she called hope and everybody else called rubbish.

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That January the snow lay to the hedge tops and the beck froze solid enough for the geese to walk on. Tom Pratt was nine, a thin little thing with mittens on strings, and he had made up his mind that a rose would grow up out of the frozen yard before Candlemas. Nobody believed him. He took the tin, walked from the byre door to the well, and tipped out a pinch of seed every few paces, so the snow behind him was pricked with dark dots like a line of stars that had come down to be counted.

Then he stood at the well and waited, and the cold did what cold does. His mother found him at dusk with his lips gone blue, his hand still shut on the empty tin. She carried him in and sat up with him, and by morning the fever had broken and the snow had turned to slush. Out in the yard, where the dots ran, a green stem had pushed through the mud. It had two curled tendrils reaching for the fence, a pair of pointed leaves, and at its tip a closed rose bud no bigger than a thumbnail, with a star-shaped flower opening in the corner by the gate.

Tom never went to sea or to the towns. He kept that tin all his days. Every winter he walked the dotted line again, and every spring the rose came up, and he never once picked it, because it was the only thing anyone had ever given him that asked nothing back. Now mind the range, and get your mittens on the strings.