Black linework tattoo of a crescent moon filled with flowers and leaves, on the upper arm above the elbow.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Floral crescent moon on an upper arm

Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A crescent moon is formed from stylised flowers and leaves, including what appear to be pansy-like blooms and small star-shaped florals. The design is drawn in fine black outline with light dot and stipple detail, and no colour is used. It sits centrally on the upper arm against a plain dark grey background.

Fine line Botanical Upper arm Moon Crescent Flower Leaves Botanical

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The frost had sat on Harrow Farm three nights running, and by the third Mary Oddie had stopped pretending the turnips would keep. Her son Tom was up in the top field with the ewes, and the kitchen lamp burned low because there was no oil to spare for the byre. She sat with her hands round a cup of barley water and listened for his dog.

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Her grandmother had a saying about the moon. It kept what it was given, she used to say, and in a hard winter it would take back whatever the farm had put into it. Mary had never believed such things. She believed in flour tallies scratched on the larder door and the price of hay at Michaelmas. But the pressed pansies in the family Bible were from her mother's last summer, and the tin of star-flowers was still in the dresser drawer where nobody had the heart to empty it.

Before she could reason herself out of it, she took the tin and the Bible's flowers and went out. The moon was a bare paring over the ridge, thin as a fingernail. On the gatepost she laid the blooms in a curve, pansy faces turned up, star-flowers tucked in the gaps, their stems pinched shut with frost. Her hands were red and clumsy with cold. She had no idea whether she was doing it right, only that her mother would have done it.

Tom came down at first light with a lamb across his shoulders, mud to the knee, and found his mother asleep on the step with the lamp still lit. The gatepost was bare. The petals lay scattered in the frost like the broken rim of something, and above the ridge the moon had swelled to a bright half, pale as a plate. "It took them," Mary said, not opening her eyes. "Put the kettle on, love. We'll manage."