Black and grey botanical tattoo of a hand holding a bouquet of flowers, leaves and sprigs on the upper arm.

Hand holding a flower bouquet on an arm

Botanical · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A hand emerges from a dark cuff at the bottom of the design and holds a small bouquet of two open flowers, leafy stems and berry-like buds. The linework is clean and even, with solid black areas on the cuff and fine shading on the petals and leaves. The design is shown in black and grey ink on smooth skin, centred on the arm.

Botanical Upper arm Hand Flower Bouquet Leaves Herb Berry Cuff Stem

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The ewes had been brought down from the top field a week early, and Nell Garrow was still picking burrs from her cuffs when the grey van stopped at the bottom of the lane. Her father had died in October. The farm was in the bank's hands now, and the man who climbed out wore a clean collar and held a folder against his chest like a shield. His name was Pryce, and he had come about the lease.

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Before she let him into the kitchen, Nell went to the walled garden. Frost lay on the brick like salt. Her grandmother had cut a bundle from this wall every Candlemas, a spray of rosemary, a few late rose hips, a sprig of yarrow gone silver, and left it on the cold step of the dairy. Nobody on the farm could say why, only that the cows calved better when it was done. Nell cut the stems with her father's knife, her fingers too stiff to feel the blade, and tied them with a length of wool from the ewe that had lambed in the snow.

Pryce had already spread the papers across the table when she came in. She set the bundle down between the folder and the teapot. He asked what it was for. She said it was for the house, the way it had always been done, and he gave a small polite laugh and turned to the clauses. He read them aloud in a level voice: rent, boundary, the dairy and its outbuildings, vacant possession by the spring. Nell listened to the words the way she listened to weather.

When he paused for her signature, she did not reach for the pen. She picked up the bundle, pulled one rose hip free, and pressed it into the margin beside the dairy clause, where it left a small red stain. "You'll want to read the last page too," she said. Pryce turned it over. On the back, in her father's cramped hand, someone had written the names of every field and the year each had last been ploughed. He looked up, and outside the window the snow on the lane had started to slump and run.