Black botanical vine tattoo of five-petalled flowers running from the neck down over the shoulder blade on a woman's back.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Floral vine tattoo across a shoulder and back

Botanical · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A winding vine of black five-petalled flowers and curling stems runs from the base of the neck down over the shoulder blade. The linework is bold and solid with some small leaves and swirls filling the gaps, and the ink is black with no colour. The tattoo follows the curve of the back in a diagonal sweep, with a blue dress and a light sofa softly out of focus behind.

Botanical Back Shoulder Flower Vine Blossom Swirl Leaves Stem

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The dance hall at Harrowmere stood on the marsh road, and its oak pillars were older than anyone's grandmother. Nobody had planted the bramble that climbed the north pillar, but every spring it put out black stems and five-petalled flowers, and the old fiddlers said it grew faster on a Saturday.

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Tamsin Ferrow kept the lamps. She was not a dancer, but she watched the floor from the gallery rail, and she noticed that the vine leaned toward whoever was turning. One autumn Wat Glover came in off the sea with a fiddle and no name to his tunes. He played until the boards hummed, and the stems curled tighter round the pillar, sweeping up in a long diagonal toward the rafters.

The steward warned them both. A vine that grows on a dance floor takes one step for every step danced, he said, and it does not stop when the music does. Tamsin asked Wat to finish at midnight. He laughed and said he would finish when the wood was tired. He played on, and the dancers kept dancing, and the leaves spread small and green into every gap the swirls left behind.

By dawn the vine had reached the gallery. Tamsin found it wound through the rail and around her wrist, cool and light as thread. Wat was gone, and the fiddle lay on the boards with its strings slack. The vine never flowered again, but it still runs down the north pillar to the floor, and the lamp-keepers of Harrowmere have never once lit that corner without bowing their heads.