Black and grey dotwork and linework tattoo of an ornate wolf head with a dotted moon and dotted geometric lines on the inner forearm.

Ornate wolf head and dotwork moon on forearm

Dotwork · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A wolf's head with ornamental patterning fills the forearm, with fine linework defining the snout, eyes and ears and dense dot shading across the fur and feathered markings. A stippled circle resembling a moon sits above it, linked to dotted diamond outlines that frame the design. The tattoo is entirely black and grey, and the photograph is shot against a plain white tiled wall.

Dotwork Geometric Forearm Wolf Moon Geometric shape Dotted line Ornamental pattern

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Ruth had been picking the Bramleys since the first of the month, and by the last week of August her ladder had worn two grey stripes into the orchard grass. The wolf came down from the hill on the night the moon was full. She heard it before she saw it: not a howl, just a long breath let out between the trunks, as if something large were settling itself under the apples.

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Her father said there hadn't been a wolf in Herefordshire since before the Normans, and that the only wolves left were painted on pub signs. Ruth had stopped arguing with him about most things by then. She left a basket of windfalls at the bottom of the far row, the sour ones nobody wanted for pies, and in the morning the basket was empty and the grass beside it was pressed flat in the shape of a long body lying down.

On the third night she stayed out past the lamp and watched the moon rise over the Malverns, round and pocked as a dropped pearl button. The animal walked out from the trees to meet it. It stopped at the edge of the light with its head lifted and its ears laid back like the leaves of a cut bough, and it looked at her with eyes that were nothing but patience.

She didn't reach for the basket. She sat down in the wet grass and let the moon keep climbing. When the wolf finally turned and went back into the dark, she counted the apples still hanging on the boughs and found, for the first time in three seasons, that she had no wish to pick them all.