Colour tattoo of a peacock feather with a green and blue eye on the upper chest, below the collarbone, beside a pink strap.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Peacock feather on upper chest

Chest · Colour · Photo

A close crop shows a woman's upper chest and collarbone with a small peacock feather tattoo. The feather has soft green barbs and a central eye with blue, teal, yellow and red rings, shaded to suggest a rounded surface. The pale skin and pink strap sit against a plain light background, which keeps attention on the tattoo.

Chest Peacock feather Feather Eye

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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 has been coming sideways through Marlow Lane market since six, and you have stopped pretending the awning keeps anything dry. Your trestle table holds a tin of pins, a roll of brown paper and a jam jar of peacock feathers you bought off a man in Carlisle who swore they were moulted, not plucked. You sell them for a pound apiece to people who want something pretty for a hatband. Nobody wants anything in weather like this.

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A girl in a yellow mac stops at the table, shaking water from her hair, and picks out the largest feather without asking the price. She holds it up to the grey light and the eye at its tip flares, teal into blue, a yellow ring, then red at the centre, as if someone had lit a small lamp behind it. 'Does it do anything?' she asks. You tell her the truth, which is that your gran said peacock eyes watch you back when you aren't looking, and that she kept a feather above every door in her house in Hull.

The girl laughs, gives you a fifty pence piece and then a second one, and walks off toward the fish stalls with the feather held up like a finger. You spend the afternoon thinking about that. The rain thins to drizzle at four. Packing up, you find the jar has one feather left, a slightly bent one, and you turn it over in your palm while its eye looks back at you, patient and unblinking.

Maybe that is the trick of it. You lock the tin, tuck the jar under your arm and walk home past the closed bakery, feeling for the first time all day that somebody has been keeping count.