Fine line black pine tree tattoo running down the inner forearm of a person with dark nail polish, with a small script word near the wrist.

Fine line pine tree on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A tall, slender pine or fir tree is drawn in delicate black linework on the inner forearm, with a thin single line extending down from its trunk. A small piece of cursive script sits near the wrist at the end of that line. The ink is black with soft grey fading, set against a dark jumper and a blurred outdoor background of evergreen branches.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Pine tree Tree Script Line Branches

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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

Mind the guy ropes, the ground's soft since the rain. Sit on the crates. No, Dilly, you've heard this one twice and you wept at the bit with the goose, so you hold the lantern and keep your face out of it. Right. Pine. Tall as a chapel and thin as a lie, that's how Mother Sorrel put it, and she had her wagon parked under one for forty winters.

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Her husband Tobias went north to sell brushes and came home with a seedling wrapped in wet flannel inside a cocoa tin. Fir, from a glen above the loch where the snow sits on the branches like icing nobody bothered to eat. He put it in the ground behind the dodgems at Scarborough, and it grew while the fair went round the coast without it. Sorrel tied a length of hemp from the trunk to her own axle, so the tree could never be left behind in a town she'd forgotten. The hemp rubbed to a thread over the years, and she fixed a brass tag to the end, stamped with her granddaughter's name in curly letters.

Then the council wanted the land for a car park, and a man with a clipboard said the tree had to come down. Sorrel stood in front of the saw with her arms folded and her hat on crooked, and he gave up by teatime. They say she slept under it that night, and in the morning the thread was still tight on the axle, humming like a fishing line with a catch on it.

So tomorrow when we roll out for Whitby, we hitch up the same way. Nobody cuts a thread that's been holding this long. Now Dilly, give me that lantern before you set your sleeve alight.