Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Horse with feathered mane on shoulder

Realism · Shoulder · Colour · Photo

A chestnut horse head faces left in profile, with shaded brown fur, a light muzzle and an eye rendered in detail. Its mane and the wind-blown wisps behind it are drawn in blue, pink and purple, with two feathers and small beads hanging from the mane. The shading is smooth and realistic on the horse, while the coloured wisps are looser and sit across the skin of the shoulder.

Realism Shoulder Horse Mane Feather Bead Wind Horse head

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sunday, 14 January. The wind came off the moor before light and hasn't let up. I went out to Bess at six with the bucket and found the top gate hanging by one hinge, and no sign of Halloran along the wall. Dad would have said he'd gone looking for the hay on Hadley's side, which is what he always said about anything that went missing.

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I found him at the ford by half eight, standing in the shallows with his head up as if he was listening for someone calling his name. His mane was full of ice and the wind was tearing it sideways in long wisps, and where the low sun came through the cloud they lit up pink and blue, the way the reservoir looks in February. Two of the feathers Dad knotted into his forelock the summer before he died were still there, a grey one and a speckled one, and I'd forgotten all about them. I stood on the bank and didn't shout.

I walked him back slow, talking nonsense about porridge and the price of barley so he'd know I wasn't cross. At the top gate I stopped and worked the feathers free, one knot at a time, with fingers too cold to feel the string. Then I put them in my coat pocket, because they were the only thing of Dad's that had ever gone walkabout and come home.

Tonight I've tied the gate with baler twine, a good double knot, and set the feathers on the windowsill where the stove heat reaches. Halloran is in the end stall eating like he's got a point to prove. I'll tell you the rest when you're home for Easter. Mind the roads on the way down, Nan says the A-road past Carlisle is a sheet of glass.