Realism tattoo of an open pocket watch with a dragonfly and a pale petal on an upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Open pocket watch with dragonfly wings

Realism · Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

A realistic tattoo of an open pocket watch with an ornate, engraved dial and Roman numerals. A dragonfly with translucent wings rests on the watch, and a pale petal rises behind it against a soft shaded background. The piece is rendered in greys and muted browns with smooth gradients and strong highlights on the metal and petal.

Realism Upper arm Pocket watch Clock face Dragonfly Wing Petal Roman numeral

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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 rain had been coming sideways down Hatherley Market since eight, and by eleven the awning over my uncle's bench was sagging like a wet sail. I had his tools laid out in their velvet trays, his loupe on a cord around my neck, and a radio that only picked up the shipping forecast. Nobody comes to a clock stall in weather like that unless they have to.

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She came in at noon with a pocket watch cupped in both hands, the way you'd carry a bird. Its lid stood open and its dial had gone the colour of weak tea, the Roman numerals worn to ghosts. 'Stopped at twenty past four,' she said. 'Dad wound it every night for forty years and then he didn't.' Something small and brown had come in out of the wet with her and settled on the open lid, a dragonfly, its wings held flat and clear as cellophane.

I didn't shoo it. I opened the back with the thin blade and found the movement furred with rust, a silver lattice gone brittle. It took an hour under the loupe. The dragonfly stayed put on the lid and watched me work with its enormous eyes. When I finally set the balance swinging, the tick was so small I felt it more than heard it.

The dragonfly lifted the moment the second hand began to sweep. It circled once over the faded XII and slipped out under the awning into a slant of sunlight that had no business being there in November. The woman pressed a coin into my palm, and I pushed it back. She closed my fingers over it and said, 'He'd have liked the insect.' When she had gone, I found a pale petal stuck to the wet boards where she had stood, still holding its shape.