Colour realism tattoo of a peacock feather with a shaded iridescent eye, running from the calf down the ankle and onto the foot.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Peacock feather tattoo on an ankle

Realism · Ankle · Colour · Photo

A detailed peacock feather runs up the leg from the foot, with its iridescent eye at the top in blue, purple, orange and green. The barbs are drawn in fine lines and softly shaded, with translucent colour that fades toward the tip. The feather is shown against a plain skin background and a brown carpet, with the foot cropped at the bottom of the frame.

Realism Ankle Peacock feather Peacock eye Feather

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody in Harrow Cross could say where the feather came from. Mabel Quill found it on the dance hall boards the morning after the harvest ball, lying under the bench where the travelling men had sat, and she slipped it into her apron pocket without thinking. It was longer than her forearm and green as river weed, and when she held it to the lamp, the eye at its crown turned from blue to purple to a burnt orange, as though someone had stirred the colours with a spoon.

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That winter the hall stood empty and the wind got in under the floor. Mabel's brother Tom went to the mill for work and did not come home for the thaw. People said the feather had called him. Mabel said nothing of the sort. She kept it pressed in the hymn book, and each Saturday she set it on the windowsill so the light from the road could reach the eye.

When the first spring dance came round, the fiddler struck up and the floor filled, and Mabel went down the line of couples holding the feather before her like a lantern. At the far end, by the cold stove, a man in a grey coat rose slowly, as if he had been waiting for someone to recognise him. He took the feather from her, turned it twice, and the eye flared gold. Tom, she thought, but the man only smiled and said the feather was his, lent for a single dance, and that a loan was only a loan.

He left by the back door before the last reel. In the morning the windowsill was bare, but the hymn book held a new page of brittle green barbs pressed flat between the psalms, and Mabel never again heard the fiddle without a faint shimmer turning at the corner of her eye.