Close crop of a person in a pink faux-croc skirt showing a dark grey floral tattoo on the upper arm and a botanical tattoo down the outer thigh.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Floral tattoos on arm and thigh

Botanical · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph is cropped from the torso to the upper thighs, showing a person wearing a pink faux-croc mini skirt and a white quilted top. A dark grey floral tattoo sits on the upper arm, with a smaller tattoo visible near the wrist, and a larger leafy design runs down the outer thigh. The tattoos appear to be in black and grey, with shading that gives the foliage some depth against the skin, and the plain white wall keeps the focus on the ink.

Botanical Forearm Upper arm Thigh Floral Leaves Foliage

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The ivy had got into the chandlery's back wall again, and Mrs Pardoe wanted it gone before the summer boats came in. You climbed the ladder with shears in your apron pocket and a tin of grey wash under your arm, because the old man who ran the place had said anything growing on a harbour wall ought to be drawn before it was cut. He had been drawing leaves for forty years and had never once explained why.

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Working in pencil first, you found a fern beneath the ivy, pale fronds gone soft with salt, and under that a bramble that had rooted in mortar nobody had repointed since the war. You shaded each leaf darker at the base, where the light did not reach, and the drawing began to look less like a record and more like a door. Every evening after closing you sat on the quay with the sketchbook open and watched the tide lift the moored dinghies a foot higher, then lower again.

On the last Saturday, a girl from the net loft came up the steps with a roll of tracing paper and asked whether you could draw her a plant that would not die in February. You told her plants never did that for free. She laughed and said she would pay in fish. You drew her a bramble with three leaves, shaded the way the wall had taught you, and when she held it to the window the light came through the paper and the veins stood out like streets nobody had yet named.

Ten years on, the chandlery had become flats and the wall was painted cream, but the bramble still hung in the net loft, and every morning the leaves looked a little wetter than they had any right to.