Black and grey photograph of a person's legs with tall pine tree silhouette tattoos running from thigh to ankle, in a botanical style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pine tree silhouettes down both legs

Botanical · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

The image shows a black and white photograph of a person seated on a sofa, with long wavy hair falling to the left and their legs crossed at the knee. Both legs carry tattoos of tall conifer trees rendered as solid black silhouettes with lighter negative space between the trunks and branches. The trees extend from the thigh down to the ankle and are set against bare skin, with boots and a dark outfit visible at the top and bottom of the frame.

Botanical Thigh Calf Pine tree Tree Forest Conifer Silhouette Leg

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Wenna,

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The larches above the salt road have all gone the colour of rust now, and the pines have taken the slope back the way they always do once the herders stop burning the undergrowth. I walked the whole ridge yesterday with the surveyor from Harrowmere, the one with the brass compass and the ridiculous hat, and he kept saying the timber was worth more standing than felled. I told him that was the first sensible thing anyone from the valley had said in my lifetime, and he looked so pleased I nearly forgave him for the hat.

You asked in your last letter whether the old tree-warden's ledger is still in the chapel vestry. It is. Damp has got into the back third, and the mice have made a nest in the entry for the great storm year, but the front pages are legible. There is a column of names for every tall pine on the north face, each marked with a small ink sign for the ones that were spared and a cross for the ones that fell. Your grandmother's hand is in there, and so is mine. I have started copying the names out again so that they will survive the damp.

Come up before the first snow if you can. Bring the good knife, the one with the bone handle, because the sap has been sticking to everything. We will sit on the cold stones by the upper spring and count the trunks the way we used to when we were girls, one for each year we have been away from home, and then we will stop counting and simply watch the light go through them.

Your sister, Isolde