Black and grey botanical flower tattoo covering the upper arm and forearm of a person kneeling on a bed in a white top and underwear.

Floral arm tattoo on a kneeling figure

Botanical · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A person kneels on a white bed with one arm wrapped across the body, showing a sleeve of flowers on the arm. The tattoo has black and grey shading with soft tonal fills on the petals and leaves, and the large blooms sit in a layered arrangement that runs along the arm. The face is not visible and the background is plain bedding with a small dark object at the edge.

Botanical Upper arm Forearm Flower Daisy Leaves

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The seam had flooded again by the time the whistle went at Ynysfach, and your mother was already at the bottom of Coronation Row with a tin bath balanced on one hip, pretending she had not been counting the men coming up the hill. You walked behind the cart with your hands in your pockets, too young to be let down the shaft and too old to be carried home. Above the tips, where the spoil had been dumped and left to cool grey for a generation, the ox-eye daisies had come up thick in the ash, white heads on thin green stalks, nodding at nobody.

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Your uncle Dai said they were a sign of something, though he never said what. He said the slag was poison and the flowers were stubborn, and that the two went together like a man and his debts. You liked the daisies better than the talk. Every evening you climbed the tip with a stub of pencil and a sheet torn from the back of the Co-op ledger, and you drew the flowers the way the big heads hung over the edge, one layered above another, shading the petals with your thumb until the paper went soft and grey as the hill.

In October the pit closed for a fortnight, and then for good. The men stood about the square in their Sunday jackets reading notices nobody wanted to believe. Your mother pressed the drawings flat between the pages of the family Bible, and when the removal van came for the furniture she handed them back to you without a word. Under the last sheet she had written, in her careful schoolroom hand, the one word you had never once heard her use about the place: stubborn.

Years later you still carry that sheet folded in your wallet, softer than any banknote. Some mornings you climb a hill that is grassed over now and find daisies sitting on the old spoil, white and nodding, as if they never heard the news. You kneel down among them and count the petals the way you once counted shifts, and you let the wind take the rest.