Let it be script with three birds on the wrist
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A close photograph of a hand with the wrist turned upward, showing a small tattoo of the words let it be in thin black cursive script, with three tiny bird silhouettes above the text. The linework is fine and solid black with no shading, sitting on the inner wrist. The pale skin rests on a soft, textured light fabric, and pink nail polish is visible on the fingers.
Find an artist for thisTake 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 third swift would not come down off the lintel, so Morag Dunn stood on an upturned creel and reached for it with both hands. Below her, Tormod leaned on the boathouse door with the net over his shoulder and the look he wore when the weather had made up his mind for him. The birds had come in off the sea three nights running. They nested in the gaps of the rafters, and the net would snag on them by the first gales of September. His reasoning was sound enough.
Keep reading
Ailsa Bell came up the shore path just then with a basket of eggs on her hip, as she did every Thursday, and stopped to watch them. She had buried two husbands and had opinions about most things on the island. 'My mother had swifts in her byre,' she said, 'and when the boats were due to go out for the last time, she told my father to open every door and let them be. Chase them and they take the luck with them. Leave them and they go when they're ready.'
Tormod snorted and went to fetch the ladder anyway. Morag climbed down from the creel instead and walked to the far end of the boathouse, where the big doors stood half open onto the grey water. She pulled them wide and sat on the step with her back to the wind. Nobody spoke. Ailsa set her basket down and waited with her arms folded. After a while the swifts found the gap of sky and went through it one after another, low over the shingle and out past the skerries.
In the morning the rafters were bare except for one grey feather caught on a nail. Tormod picked it up, turned it once, and tucked it into the band of his cap. He hung the net on its peg without a word, and the boats went out that week with nothing tangled in them at all.
More like this
From the plentytattoo archive, uploaded by a user. Is this your work? Ask for credit or removal.