Black ink sketch-style tattoo of a lighthouse beside a crescent moon, with rays and rocks, on the outer ankle and lower leg.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Lighthouse and crescent moon on an ankle

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A lighthouse stands on a rocky base beneath a crescent moon, with light beams and loose, sketched construction lines extending across the design. The lighthouse is shaded with fine stipple and dotwork, while the moon and some strokes use bolder solid black. The tattoo is shown in black ink on pale skin against a dark background.

Fine line Dotwork Ankle Lighthouse Crescent moon Rock Sea

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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 snow had shut the Carrick road by four o'clock, and by six the only light I could see from the inn's back window was the lighthouse on Scar Head, turning its slow arm through the flakes like someone sweeping a floor. Mrs Pell had lit the range and was counting spoons in the kitchen, muttering that nobody would come now, not with the moon up like a paring knife over the bay.

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The guest that night was a man called Ostrander, who had arrived on foot with a sketchbook under his coat and a face the colour of wet slate. He sat by the fire and drew without looking at the page. When I leaned over his shoulder, I saw the lighthouse, drawn in quick scratches, and a row of fine lines running out from its lantern like the spokes of a broken umbrella, all of them pointing at the window where I stood.

"It isn't finished," he said. "The light only reaches what it has been told to reach. I keep trying to rub out the line that goes past the rocks." He tore out the page, folded it in four, and pushed it into the grate. The paper caught slowly, and the crescent he had drawn above the tower blackened and curled before the rest of it went.

At dawn the snow had stopped and the bay lay flat and blue. The lighthouse was dark. Mrs Pell swore the lamp had gone out at midnight, though nobody had climbed the stair to see. Ostrander was gone, his boot prints running down the drift towards the headland, and on the sill of the back window lay a single sheet, unburnt, with one line left unfinished, running off the edge of the paper towards the sea.