Traditional style pomegranate tattoo with dark green leaves on the back of a hand, with small heart, fish and star tattoos on the fingers.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pomegranate tattoo on the back of a hand

Traditional · Hand · Colour · Photo

A split pomegranate with red seeds, a white pith and a brown rind sits on the back of a hand, with dark green leaves above and black ray lines beneath. Bold black outlines and solid fills give it a classic flat look in red, orange, brown and green ink. Roman numerals run along the wrist, and small tattoos of a heart, a fish, a star and a cross sit on the fingers.

Traditional Hand Leaves Roman numeral Heart Fish Star Cross Ray

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down there, where the wasps can't get at your ankles. My grandmother's orchard sat on the south slope above Hallow Rise, and every September the pomegranate by the well split its fruit open like a hand letting go of something. Folk said the fruit was too bruised-looking to keep its secrets, and they were right. Every seed in that orchard was counted, and the counting was done by Tamsin Vell, who kept the ledger in the cart shed and wrote her tallies in Roman numerals because she said plain numbers could be rubbed out.

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Now the ledger had a rule, though nobody had written it down. The tree gave exactly as many seeds as there were days left before the harvest fair, and not one more. In the autumn the old lime was struck by lightning, Tamsin counted thirty-nine seeds in the split fruit, and the fair was thirty-nine days off. She told the lad from the mill it was nothing. She told herself the same, right up until the morning she found a fruit on the ground under the tree, its rind gone pale where the sun had lain on it, and inside it one seed that glowed like a coal in the dark.

She did not eat it. Her grandmother had taught her that whatever you swallow belongs to the tree, and she was not ready to belong to anything. She pushed the seed into a jam jar of wet soil, set it on the sill of the cart shed, and drew a line under the thirty-nine.

The fair came and went. Nobody rubbed out the ledger. Come the next September there was a green shoot by the well no taller than a thumb, and beside it the new entry, written in ink so black it had soaked through to the page beneath: XL.