Colourful floral sleeve tattoo with roses and leaves on the upper arm and forearm of a person in a rust-coloured bustle gown, leaning on a railing.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Floral sleeve tattoo on upper arm and forearm

Botanical · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

The photograph shows a person's arm from the shoulder to the wrist, covered in a sleeve tattoo of roses and other flowers with leaves. The tattoo uses solid, saturated fills with soft shading, in reds, greens and blues. The arm rests on a railing against a window and a rust-coloured bustle gown fills the lower half of the frame.

Botanical Upper arm Forearm Rose Flower Leaves Sleeve

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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

Shut the shutters, Tom, and put another log on, for the snow has closed the pass and none of you are leaving before the thaw. Now, you'll want to hear about Harriet Coyle and the roses of Blackmoor Lane, for it's a tale that gets told when the wind comes off the moor and the candles run low.

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Harriet kept a nursery behind the old coaching house, a long glasshouse of cracked panes where she grew roses nobody else could coax. There were crimson ones the colour of cooling iron, and a blue-veined white that opened only after dark. The carters paid her in eggs and cloth. She paid them back in cuttings, and every cart that left Blackmoor went down the valley with a root wrapped in wet sacking, which is how the roses came to climb every wall from here to the river.

Then came the winter the wolds froze solid and the glasshouse went dark. Harriet, who had never once let a plant die, sat up three nights with a lamp, talking to the bare canes. On the third morning the frost on the panes had grown ferns, and at the root of the oldest bush one green shoot had split the stone floor. She knelt and found the root cold but living, and above it a single bud, tight as a fist, the colour of old copper.

It opened in the thaw, and every rose in the valley turned on its stem toward the pass, as if someone had called them. The carters swore they could see the bushes from the high road, a line of red lanterns in the white dark. Nobody lost the way to Blackmoor again. So when the snow comes down thick as this, the old women still set a rose cutting in the inn window. Drink up. The road will be there in the morning, and if you look for it, so will the roses.