Close-up of a woman's upper arm with a row of simple black moon phase tattoos running in a line, her face cropped out of frame.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Moon phases tattoo on upper arm

Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A woman wearing a coral top holds the fabric at her collar, showing a row of six black moon phase tattoos on her arm. The moons range from crescents to a full circle and are rendered in solid black ink with smooth edges. The soft, plain background and natural daylight keep the focus on the tattoo.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Marguerite,

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The almanac came with the pears, so I have been sowing by it all week, which you will say is the most old-woman thing I have ever done. Runner beans go in on the waxing side, the book says, and the parsnips wait for the dark of the moon because they like their roots to think nothing is happening above them. I have pinned the little printed circles to the potting shed door in a row, the way Dad used to pin his rejected seed packets, and I walk past them every morning with my coffee going cold.

Mrs Achterberg next door has taken over the far bed and keeps asking whether the courgettes have been told about the moon. I tell her they have been told everything. She laughed at that, which surprised us both, and then she gave me a cutting of rosemary from her own wall and said it would outlive the pair of us if I stopped fussing over it.

The first crescent is the one I looked at longest. It is the sliver that comes before anything has been decided, and I thought of you on the platform at Carlisle with your case held in front of you like a shield. By the time the moon is full, the lettuces will have bolted twice and you will have rung me from three different numbers. I counted the phases again last night, from the thin edge to the bright middle, and there are six of them on the door, which means six weeks at most, if you keep to your word.

I have left the seventh space blank. The almanac says the next full moon falls on a Thursday, and I have told the beans they are to be ready by then. Come home before the frost takes the squash, and bring the good secateurs, the ones you always forget you own.

Love, Ruth

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