Colourful folk-style floral vine tattoo running down a forearm, with red, orange and green flowers, leaves and a stylised central motif.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Folk floral vine down a forearm

Botanical · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A vine with leaves and flower heads runs down the forearm, with a stylised central motif in red, yellow and brown outlined in black. The linework is bold and even, with flat areas of colour and light shading. The tattoo fills the centre of the frame against a plain skin background, with a printed page visible behind the arm.

Botanical Forearm Flower Vine Leaves Floral

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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

Sit down, the stool by the crates is the one that doesn't wobble. Now. Ilse Tennant painted the orchard gate every late summer, when the windfalls lay thick in the grass and the wasps were drunk on them. She had a tin of red ochre, a tin of yellow bought from a chemist in Kendal, and a brush she swore had come from a bishop's cat, though nobody ever saw the cat.

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She never drew first. She started at the hinge with a loaded brush and let the vine decide where it went. Up it climbed, round the latch, over the top bar, then down the far side in leaves like green teardrops, each with a little hook in its tail. The flower heads she made from three drops of colour: red for the outer petal, yellow for the belly, and brown in the middle where a bee would sit if the bee had any sense. The village thought her soft in the head. They bought her pears anyway, and she gave them the wormy ones so they'd come back.

The summer she finished the long vine, the one that ran the whole length of the wall down to the well, she did something nobody had seen before. She dipped the brush in the ochre, then the yellow, and painted one last bell-shaped bloom hanging low near the ground. She signed it with a single leaf instead of her name. When the frost came that winter the gate rotted at the hinge and the men carried it off to the bonfire. I stood by it, and in the ash I saw that flower still bright, the red not even scorched. Put your hand here. Feel that? Warm as a sleeping dog, and it's been that way for sixty years.