Lotus mandala wrist band tattoo

The lock at Dunmere stuck again this morning, and I stood on the cill with the windlass for an hour before the water shifted. You'll remember the rosette Grandad cut into the top rail of the bottom gate, the one he said was a lotus because it was the only flower that could come up out of muck and not care who saw. I went up with a wire brush to clear the green from its petals. The scrollwork had filled with weed, but under it the old black paint was still there, pooled in the little dips like ink nobody bothered to wipe.

Mrs Calder from the top cottage came down with a flask and watched me work. She said the dots above and below the flower were rain that hadn't landed yet. I told her Grandad put them there to count the turns of the paddle, one dot for every full wind, and she laughed so hard she had to sit down on the bollard. I didn't tell her the dots were the only part I could never get to sit right, and that I kept counting them on the walk home.

The gate groaned when I drew the sluice. Water roared through the culvert, lifting the narrowboat that had been waiting since Tuesday, and as the boards settled I saw the rosette rise with it, its petals catching the grey light the way they did when you were small and sat on the cill with your feet in the cold. Nothing had moved except the water, but it looked open.

Ring me Sunday. The boat's called Patience and she's yours if you want her.

Dad