Black fine line tattoo of a thin botanical sprig with small clusters of tiny flowers, placed on the upper back near the shoulder of a woman with red hair tied back.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fine line sprig tattoo on a shoulder

Fine line · Shoulder · Black and grey · Photo

A fine black linework sprig with a long, thin stem curves across the upper back near the shoulder. Small clusters of tiny five-petalled blossoms and buds sit at the end of the stem, with light shading in the flower heads. The photograph is taken from behind against a pale background, with a mint green blouse and a low red ponytail framing the tattoo.

Fine line Botanical Shoulder Sprig Flower Stem Wildflower Bud

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The fiddler at the Holloway Hall had played the same three tunes since harvest, and by the time the lamps were turned up the boards were gritty with chalk and nobody was tired yet. Nell Crake stood by the door with her boots in one hand, waiting for Will Parr to finish his cider, and when he finally crossed the floor he had a sprig of something pale and feathery held low against his coat, as if it were a secret.

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"Wild chervil," he said. "Off the bank behind the byre. It only grows where nobody has bothered it." He pressed the stem into her palm. The flowers were tiny and five-petalled, crowded at the tip like a handful of stars that had lost their way. "I'm away to the boats at Lammas. Keep it till I'm back and I'll dance you the length of this floor."

She kept it. She pressed it between the pages of her mother's psalter, where the dry flowers left faint brown ghosts on the paper, and she went down to the hall every Saturday through the winter. The fiddler got older. He learned a fourth tune, then gave up trying and played the first three again.

Will came back at the first frost, but not up the lane. A man from the coast brought word in a wet coat and would not sit down. The boat had gone out past the sandbar in a blow, and that was all there was to say.

Nell took the psalter from the shelf the next spring. The sprig was brittle as tissue. Under the hedge by the byre, where she had shaken its seed loose without meaning to, a new stem had come up thin and green, its flower heads still closed. She knelt in the wet grass and waited for them to open, and when the fiddler started up in the hall behind her she did not get up to go in.