Close-up of a colour tattoo of blue forget-me-not flowers with yellow centres and green leaves, shown in a botanical realism style on skin.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Forget-me-not flowers in blue and green

Botanical · Colour · Photo

Clusters of blue forget-me-not flowers with yellow and dark centres fill the frame, with green leaves behind and between them. The petals use soft, blended shading with pale highlights along the edges, giving a painted, lifelike finish. Blues and greens dominate the colour palette, and the design fills the frame from edge to edge.

Botanical Realism Forget-me-not Flower Leaves Petal

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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

You find the seed packet in the lamp room, tucked inside the logbook between the entries for March and April, its paper gone soft as cloth. Someone has written across the front in pencil: For the rock garden, if I'm not here to do it. Below the tower the rock garden is a scrabble of thrift and sea pinks, and in all your months on the rock you have never seen a flower that wasn't burnt by salt.

Keep reading

Mrs Ada Penhale kept this light for thirty-one years before her husband's boat went onto the Skerrick ledge in a November gale. You know this because the logbook says so, in a hand that grows smaller and more careful as the pages turn. She noted the tides, the ships that passed, the weather rolling in off the Atlantic, and then one spring, between a gale warning and a fog note, a single line: Sowed the blue ones by the steps. Remembered.

You take the trowel down the path at low water and work the seeds into a crack in the wall that faces the sea, where the wind can't reach them directly. Nothing happens for weeks. Then one morning there is a cluster of small blue flowers, five petals each, yellow at the throat, crowded so close together they look like a spill of sky caught on the stone. You kneel with the trowel across your knees and think about her kneeling in the same place, the same wind pulling at her coat.

That evening you climb the stairs, wind the clockwork, and open the logbook to a clean page. The beam goes out over the water and comes round again, sweeping across the wall below, and for one turn of the light every petal catches it. You write: Planted the blue ones. Still here.