Black and grey tattoo of two poppies with fine line shading and overlapping geometric triangle outlines on the inner forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Poppies with geometric triangles on forearm

Botanical · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows two poppy flowers, one partly overlapping the other, with their petals, seed heads and centres rendered in fine black linework and grey shading. Two thin, overlapping triangular outlines sit behind the flowers and extend up the forearm. The image is a close photograph of the forearm against a plain light background, with the tattoo as the clear focus.

Botanical Geometric Fine line Forearm Poppy Flower Triangle Geometric shape Petal

Find an artist for this

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 closer, bach, and keep your hands away from the grate, because this is the version I tell after the chapel men have gone home. Above Tylorstown there was a tip so black that not even dock would grow on it, and every child in the row dared each other to climb up and touch it. Then came the stoppage of 1926, when the wheels at the pit head stood still for seven months, and the wind swung round from the east carrying seed nobody had ordered.

Keep reading

The old men say it was the frame that did it. The headgear stood against the evening sky like two pegged triangles, and when the sun sank behind it, the shadow fell across the terraces in sharp slants that nobody could sleep under. Women pinned their washing away from those lines. But the poppies did not care for shadow. By June the whole tip had flared scarlet, the crumpled paper petals opening over the slag, and the lamp men walked up in their Sunday boots just to look.

Nia Hopkins picked a handful of the seed heads before the wind could take them, pale little pepper pots, and kept them in a cocoa tin on the dresser. Her boy Dai went down to the new seam that October. He came back up in the spring with coal in his lashes and a cough he never lost, and she never once asked him to stop going. Every time she felt low she took down the tin and shook it, and the seeds knocked together like a handful of small black stones.

She died in the winter of the big snow, and the tin came to me. I have never opened it. I shake it on the first warm day of the year, and I listen. Hear that? That is the hill still talking.