Fine line colour tattoo of a lavender sprig with green stem running diagonally along the inner forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Lavender sprig on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A slender lavender sprig with purple flower buds and a thin green stem runs diagonally along the inner forearm, from near the wrist towards the elbow. The linework is delicate and the flowers are shaded in soft lilac and violet tones with small highlights. The pale arm is photographed against a plain light grey wall, with the hand and rings visible at the lower right.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Lavender Flower Sprig Stem Leaves

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

Maud Penhallow had carried the same sprig of lavender in her coat pocket since the Tuesday the supply boat failed to come, and by Thursday it had gone grey at the edges and smelt more of wool than of anything growing. She climbed the spiral of the lighthouse at Gull Stack with the lamp oil on her shoulder, counting the iron steps the way her father had taught her, forty-one to the gallery, and at the top she stopped to check the wick against the sea-fog pressing on the glass.

Keep reading

Her father had planted the lavender along the cottage wall the year the light was electrified, saying a keeper needed something to look at that did not move. It had grown leggy in the salt wind. Every August she cut the stems and hung them in bundles in the lamp room, where the sharp smell kept the damp off the brass. Beside the lens she kept a tin of matches, the logbook, and a photograph of the coaster Morwenna Star, lost in '31 with all hands, which she had never once looked at directly.

Out past the stack a light blinked, then another, a fishing boat feeling its way home with no mast light. Maud turned the clockwork by hand when it stuck and counted the seconds between flashes into the log. Nobody on that boat would ever know her name, and that was the job. She pinned the withered sprig inside the logbook cover, where the ink ran dark along the spine, and pressed the cover shut.

By dawn the fog had lifted and the boat was rounding Carrick point, its hull bright in the first sun. Maud went down the forty-one steps slowly, her knees complaining. At the cottage wall the lavender had put out its first buds of the year, low and unbothered in the wind. She cut a fresh sprig with the kitchen scissors, carried it back up, and laid it in the logbook beside the old one, so the lamp room would have something that did not move.