Small pink dandelion tattoo with a curving green stem on the inner wrist and forearm, photographed outdoors in daylight.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pink dandelion on the wrist

Botanical · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A pink, fluffy dandelion seed head sits at the top of a thin green stem that curves down the forearm towards the wrist. The flower is filled with loose, short pink strokes, and the stem is drawn in a softer, slightly uneven green line. The photo is taken outdoors on wooden decking, with the forearm filling the frame and a bare knee visible at the lower right.

Botanical Forearm Dandelion Flower Stem

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Hush now, the lot of you, and leave that bread alone. I'm coming to the bit about Nan Hollis and the dandelion clock, which is why you're all sat on the hay bales in your good shoes instead of dancing. Mind the bunting, Eddie, it's caught on your collar.

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Nan Hollis had a wish ready for every wedding in Dunmere parish, sixty years of them, and she kept them in her apron pocket like pebbles. The clock she picked for the miller's girl was pink at the head where the florets had gone soft, and the green stem bent over in the wind as if it were listening. She told the girl to pick it from the verge by the chapel gate, where the lane bends, and to hold it in both hands the way you'd carry a bird's egg.

Now the wish itself, and I'll say it plain since nobody ever did. Nan said you blow once, hard, and count the seeds that stay on the stalk. Every one that stays is a year. Every one that flies off goes to whoever you're thinking of, and they feel it as a draught at the back of the neck. The miller's girl blew, the stalk came up bare as a broom, and she laughed, and her new husband laughed, and the wind took the lot over the wall toward the sea.

Years later, when the miller's girl was a widow with grey plaits of her own, a seed came down the chimney on a cold October morning and landed in her porridge. She fished it out, wiped it on her skirt, and kept it in a tin. That is why, when the bride's mother asks you to find a bloom for the table, you go to the verge where the lane bends, and you do not blow it until you've said who you're thinking of. Now, the pie.