Small fine line peacock feather tattoo in teal and orange on the inner wrist, worn beside a gold charm bracelet.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Peacock feather on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A slender peacock feather runs vertically along the inner wrist, with a teal shaft and curling barbs. The eye at the top is outlined in dark blue and filled with orange and yellow, and the fine linework is shaded lightly in teal. The soft, circular frame shows a potted fern behind the arm and a gold charm bracelet above the tattoo.

Fine line Forearm Peacock feather Feather Peacock eye Wrist Bracelet

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Maud, the peacock has moved into the walled garden again, and Mr Ashby says we must let him be until the spring. You will remember the fuss last year, when he got into the glasshouse and sat on the tomatoes like a duchess. This morning he came down the gravel path in full display, the whole tail lifted behind him like a fan being shaken out, and I stood at the kitchen window with my tea going cold and counted the eyes. There were ninety-one. Ninety-one blue rings the colour of a summer pond, each with its gold centre.

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Some of the feathers have broken off in the hedge. I gathered three from under the box bush and laid them on the sill to dry. One is still perfect, the eye so bright it looks wet. The other two have split along the barbs, and I think I will keep them anyway, because the damaged ones are the ones that tell you where the bird has been.

Here is the thing I meant to write before the peacock distracted me. Your father's letters came to the house this week, all forty of them, tied in string at the bottom of the tea chest. I had not opened them since the funeral. I read the one about the wall he built by hand and the one about the teal glaze he tried to match on the potting shed door, and I thought, he would have liked that bird, he would have cursed it and then fed it corn.

Come at Whitsun if the trains are running. Bring the good scissors. There is a feather I want pressed between the pages of the atlas, the one with the eye that looks back at you, and I would rather you were here to see it than hear about it in another of my long letters. Love, Aunt Win