Black and grey horse head tattoo with flowing mane and white-flower outlines on the outer thigh, drawn in a sketchy, realistic style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Horse head with flowers on a thigh

Realism · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A horse head in profile with a flowing mane and a small flower in its forelock fills the upper thigh, with a trail of outlined flowers running down the leg. The linework is fine and sketch-like, with soft hatched shading on the muzzle, neck and mane. The tattoo is entirely black and grey, and the composition follows the curve of the thigh against a white brick wall.

Realism Botanical Thigh Horse Flower Mane Floral

Find an artist for this

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

The mare had come off the train at Kellow Junction with a tag on her halter that said only SALT, and nobody in Thornbury Cross knew who had written it. Father said she was too fine for the hunt and too fretful for the plough, which meant she would be mine by Michaelmas if I could keep her from biting the farrier.

Keep reading

Her mane was the colour of wet slate and would not lie down, so every morning I plaited it with blue ribbon from Mrs Ackroyd's haberdashery, and every morning she shook it loose over the stable door. The flowers were my doing. Bindweed grew up the hedge by the lane, pale as paper, and I picked the ones that had opened before the sun reached them and tucked one into her forelock to see if she would stand still.

She stood still. She stood for a whole hot August afternoon while the flies went round her, and when I looked up from the bucket she had turned her head towards the lane, the way a person waits for a letter that has been delayed. Nobody came up the lane that day or the next. The post office sent word that a parcel had gone astray on the Swindon line.

In September I rode her to the top of Cold Hill and let her choose the way home. She took the long route through the bindweed and the broken gate, and at the bottom of the field she stopped beside a leaning stone with a name I could not read for the moss. I climbed down and scraped it clean with my thumbnail. It said SALT, and beneath that, smaller, Be good to her, Eleanor. I got back into the saddle and told her she had been right to wait, and she blew out through her nose as if she had known all along.