Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Fine line flower sprig on an upper arm
Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo
A slender stem rises from the bottom of the frame, branching into a sprig of small round buds and narrow leaves. The linework is very thin and delicate, with light soft shading inside the buds. The design is black ink on pale skin, centred on the upper arm against a plain background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The lock-keeper at Brindle Lock said the cutting would never take. It had been growing out of a crack in the coping stone for longer than anyone could remember, he said, and nothing with buds that small had any business living on brick. I told him brick was only dirt that had given up. He laughed and let me take it, and I snapped the stem low where it was still green and wiry.
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I put it in a jam jar on the shelf above the stove in *Marigold*, Dad's old narrowboat, which had not moved from the moorings since the spring he stopped being able to climb onto the roof. Each morning I counted the buds before I did anything else. Seven on the first day, nine by the weekend, and the narrow leaves going darker at their tips, as if they were making up their minds about something. The water under the hull knocked softly against the steel all night, the way it always had.
Dad watched me from the bench on the towpath one afternoon and asked why I was keeping a weed in a jar. I said it was waiting for somewhere to go. He didn't answer for a long time. Then he asked if I wanted the old secateurs, the ones with the red handles, because the hedge by the winding hole needed cutting back.
At dawn the next morning I carried the jar up the iron ladder and knelt on the cold coping. The stem was longer than I remembered, and it had grown two new buds in the night. I pressed the root end into the crack where it had come from, firmly, the way you would settle a child into a chair, and turned the buds towards the towpath so the first walkers would see them.
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