Black and grey botanical tattoo of tall pine trees with soft, sketchy shading running up the outer forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pine trees on a forearm

Botanical · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A cluster of tall, slender pine trees with narrow trunks and feathery branches rises vertically along the forearm. The trees are rendered in black and grey with soft, sketched shading that fades into lighter areas toward the top, suggesting mist or depth. The design fills the length of the arm against a plain, pale skin background.

Botanical Forearm Pine tree Tree Conifer Forest

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The third night the snow came sideways over the pass, and Father sent me up to the top room with a lamp and two spare blankets, because the surveyor from Kendal had not come down for his supper and the stove had started to sulk. I knocked twice and went in anyway. The bed was made, his boots were gone from beside the door, and his charcoal stubs lay in a row along the sill like spent matches. Through the glass I could see the old pine wood his grandfather had planted up the slope, the trunks running up into the mist until the tops were lost entirely.

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He had been drawing them for a fortnight. Every evening he came down with black fingers and said the trees were easier company than the men from the water board, because a pine never argued about the price of a survey and only wanted light. I thought him soft in the head until I saw the sheets he left on the settle, tall narrow things that seemed to lean toward one another for warmth, their branches thinned out into feathers and their lower trunks dissolving like breath on a window.

I found him on the track below the wood with the lantern held high and his sketchbook buttoned inside his coat, counting under his breath. The snow had filled his footprints behind him. "Seven," he said when I came up beside him, and he sounded almost cross about it. "I can only ever get seven to stand still at once." We walked back down together, my lamp swinging, his hand on my shoulder for the steep bit, and I did not ask him what he had been trying to keep from wandering off.

In the morning the drawing was pinned above the kitchen fire where the steam could reach it. Seven slender pines rose out of a grey wash, their tops fading into nothing, and beneath them he had written the name of the inn in small careful capitals. Father said it was too good to hang in a kitchen. I told him the surveyor had already gone, and that the trees were still standing, and we left it where it was.