Black and grey realism tattoo of a pocket watch with Roman numerals, a key and scrolling ornament on a forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pocket watch and key realism on forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A large pocket watch with Roman numerals and an ornate chain sits at the centre of the design, with a feather shape behind it. A key and a carved scroll motif run down the lower part of the arm. The piece uses soft shading and high contrast in black and grey ink, with fine detail on the watch face and metalwork.

Realism Forearm Pocket watch Clock Roman numeral Key Scrollwork Feather

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Hal,

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The watch stopped again on Tuesday, so I took it down to Mr Okafor in town. He says the mainspring is tired, much like everything in this valley after the dry weeks. The Bramleys came early this year and are dropping in the long grass before anyone has bothered to pick them. I've sent the pickers home by four, because the light turns gold and then grey so quickly now that the ladders are dangerous.

Mrs Pryce came up the lane with a bag of quinces and asked after you, and whether you were still the lad who climbed the Lady Apple and had to be fetched down with the step ladder. I said yes. She laughed and said the little brass key was still in the bureau drawer where Dad kept it, the one with the bow worn smooth. I found it there this morning under the old ledgers, with a grey feather caught in the wards. It must have come from the barn owl that nests in the cider shed. I sat at the bureau for longer than I meant to.

Mr Okafor says the watch will run again, but only if someone winds it at the same hour every evening, which is the trouble with watches. I didn't tell him it used to be your job. I did tell him you'd be back before the frosts, and he looked at me the way people in town look at the orchard people, as if we are all a little bit behind.

I'm sending the key and the feather in this envelope. The watch is going back on its nail by the back door, and I'll wind it at six tonight, when the sun comes in low across the rows. Come home when you can. The apples won't wait, but the clock will.

Nell