Small green butterfly tattoo with brown body on the inner wrist of a raised arm against a plain grey wall.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Green butterfly on a wrist

Forearm · Colour · Photo

A raised hand and forearm show a small butterfly tattoo on the inner wrist, with pale green wings and a brown body and antennae. The wings have soft, shaded tones and fine detail, and the butterfly is the only subject. The plain light grey background keeps the focus on the tattoo and the arm.

Forearm Butterfly Wing Insect

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Ffion had been told to clear the outer bailey by Friday, the nettles and bramble that the estate agent called rubbish and the mason called shelter. She stood on the lowest course of the gatehouse with the pointing iron in one hand and a flask of stewed tea in the other, watching the north wall for the thing that had caught her eye that morning.

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Gethin came along the wall with his hip complaining at every step. "You're looking for the green one," he said, not asking. "Pale as a pear leaf. Only comes up from the ivy where the chapel roof fell in. My nan called them the castle's last tenants." He pointed with his chin at the nettles below. "They lay on those. Always have."

The butterfly came off the wall then, wings opening and closing like someone slowly reading a letter, and it settled on the brown handle of her iron. She did not move. The wings were the green of old copper, the body the dark brown of a wet branch, and it sat there while the wind combed the ivy and the lime mortar dried grey on her trowel. The sale brochure was folded in quarters in her coat pocket, promising a rare opportunity for a sympathetic restorer.

She went down to the nettles that afternoon with her gloves on and the strimmer unplugged, and marked a square of ground with two stones and a strip of orange tape. Then she wrote on the back of the brochure in pencil: Keep out. Eggs. Estate to wait. Gethin read it over her shoulder and laughed until he coughed. By dusk the green wings had gone back into the ivy, and the nettles stood knee high across the bailey, as tall as they had ever been.