Colour tattoo of a purple plumeria flower with green leaves and soft blue shading on pale skin, in a botanical style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Purple plumeria with green leaves

Botanical · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows a single five-petalled plumeria flower in shades of lilac and violet, with a pale centre and soft white highlights on the petals. Two green leaves with yellow-green highlights and dark outlines sit behind the flower, and a faint blue wash surrounds the design. The shading is smooth and blended, and the design is centred against a plain area of skin.

Botanical Flower Plumeria Leaves

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The crate split on the slipway at four in the morning and the ice went skidding across the stones like something let out of a cage. Dai Pengelly swore in Cornish and then in Portuguese, which he only did when he was truly rattled. I caught the flower pot before it went over the edge. Clay, a single plant, its leaves still glossy from the glasshouse, and a note tucked under the rim in Marisol's looping hand: keep it out of the frost.

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We had carried that plumeria on the Maria Amelia for three seasons, lashed to the wheelhouse sill where the spray could not reach it. Nobody knew what it was called at first. Marisol said it smelled of her grandmother's courtyard in Faial, sweet enough to make you forget the diesel. When the nets came up heavy with mackerel she would reach out and touch a pale petal the way other people touch a rosary.

Last winter it froze. The glasshouse had been let go and the cutting nearly died in the cold, one leaf browned at the edges. I carried it home inside my oilskin, held against my chest, down the cliff path in the dark. It needed the company more than the warmth, I think, and I told it so. I set it in our kitchen window and talked to it while the kettle boiled, which Ruth found very funny.

In March a single bloom opened, five petals the colour of a bruise going healthy, with a yellow heart like a lamp left on. I walked down to the harbour with it cupped in my palms and showed Marisol. She held it a long while without speaking. Then she said the sea had given us the flower back, and I said the sea had done no such thing, and we argued happily all the way to the pub, the blossom riding between us on the bar, leaning toward the fire.