Woman seen from behind wearing a black lace top, with a large black and grey ornamental floral tattoo covering her back in a Botanical style.

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Ornate floral back tattoo seen from behind

Botanical · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A person sits in a car seen from behind, with dark hair falling over one shoulder and a black lace top worn across the back. The back is covered in a large ornamental tattoo of symmetrical flowers, scrolls and a paisley-like motif in fine black linework with solid and shaded fills. The tattoo is in black and grey, with the design framed by the car interior and blurred greenery through the window.

Botanical Back Upper arm Floral Flower Ornament Mandala Scroll Paisley

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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

Sit closer, you lot, and mind the fire, for this is the one about the ironsmith's widow and the wood past Hollin Gate. Nobody in Ashby Thorn goes into those trees after dark, and I'll tell you why when the kettle's on.

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Her name was Maud Verrick, and her son Piers went in after a lost goat the autumn the frost came early. The goat came home. Piers did not. So Maud sat at her kitchen table with a needle and a skein of black silk, and she stitched. She stitched what she knew of the wood: the spread of the ferns, the rings of the old oaks, the knot of briars that curled round the stile like a fist. She stitched flowers with eight petals and flowers with twelve, and she made every scroll turn back on itself so the thread would never run out.

Be quick with that cup, Tam. Where was I? Ah. She stitched for a year and a day, and when the cloth was done she laid it on the stile at midnight and walked away without looking back. Come the morning, the cloth was gone, and so was the path that had led to the goat's trail. In its place stood Piers, older by a decade, with bark-grey skin and her stitched patterns running across his shoulders like sap under the rind.

He did not come home that day, nor the next. But every spring a single black bloom opens at that stile, and if you stand very still at dusk you can hear someone counting the petals, one by one, the way she once counted stitches. That's the tale. Now bank that fire and go home by the lane, not the wood.