Black fine line tattoo of tall pine trees fading downwards along the side of a person's ribs, shown in a side view and a close-up.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pine forest tattoo on the ribs

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A side view of a torso with a tattoo of tall conifer trees running vertically down the ribs, with the lower trunks fading into lighter lines. A close-up panel on the right shows the same design with clearer detail of the branches and trunks. The linework is fine and mostly black, with grey shading that gives the trees depth against the pale skin.

Fine line Botanical Ribs Pine tree Conifer Forest Tree Branches

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mairi counted the trees from the ferry rail because counting was easier than thinking about the crate in the hold. Forty-one, the first winter, she had written in the ledger at Sgeir House, and every one of them had been planted by her grandfather's hands on the north slope above Port Ruadh, where the wind came off the water like a blade. Now the slope was bare to the rock, and the only pines left stood in a row along the burn, thin as pencil lines.

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The crate held a seedling wrapped in wet sacking, the last of the Scots pine her grandfather had grown in the glasshouse before he died. The mainland nursery had refused to sell it to her. The woman at the counter had looked at the name on the order and said the island was a dead loss for planting since the storms, and Mairi had said nothing back. She had only paid from the tin, coin by coin, while the woman watched.

She carried the crate up the slope at dusk, when the light lay flat and grey across the water. The ground was stony and wouldn't take a spade, so she dug with her hands and the old trowel until her nails split. The tree went in at the top of the slope, facing the sea. Above it, the sky looked very large and very empty.

Walking back down, she stopped where the path bent and looked up. The trees on the ridge were dark against the last light, their tips lifting into the cloud. The ones nearest the water had already greyed and softened into the sea mist, the way things do when you stop looking at them for a while. She stood there until the cold got into her boots, and then she went home to write the new tree into the ledger.