Fine line drawing of an outstretched hand with poppy flowers, leaves, a moon and an eye motif, and the words trust the path unseen, in black ink with blue accents.

Hand with poppies and lettering

Fine line · Hand · Mixed · Flash

A hand is drawn in black linework with poppies and leafy stems wrapping around the wrist and fingers. Each finger is filled with a solid black panel decorated with white and blue motifs, including a cactus, a tree, an eye, a moon and stars. The words trust the path unseen run across the palm in hand-lettered script with a feather and a small blue ornament below.

Fine line Botanical Lettering Hand Hand Poppy Lettering Feather Moon Eye Cactus Star Leaves Tree

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Tobias Crane had carried the post over the fell road for thirty winters, and on the night the snow came early he set out with a lantern that would not stay lit. His sister Morag stood at the gate with her shawl pulled tight. She told him to keep to the wall, where the stones would show him the way. He laughed and said the stones had never once spoken to him in all that time.

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The road split at the old larch, the one the lightning had opened down its trunk. He stood there with the wind in his face and remembered what his mother used to say when he was small and afraid of the dark. Count the fingers of your hand, she had told him, and each one will point you somewhere. The thumb was the larch. The first finger was the eye that opened in the gorse when a fox went by. The middle finger was the moon, and the ring finger was the thorn that stood on the ridge with its arms raised like a man giving up. So he went where the moon lay, and then where the thorn pointed.

At the top of the pass the poppies that had flowered in July were only dry heads now, rattling against the stones. Across the path lay a single grey feather, and it turned slowly on the frost, always toward the valley. He stepped over it and followed where it turned, and the ground under his boots felt less like a road than a palm closing gently around him.

By first light he reached the farm gate. Morag had not moved, though her shawl was white with snow. She lifted the lantern, and this time the flame stood up straight and bright. He never told her how the path had felt, only that he had counted his fingers and come home.