Colour tattoo of a pink rose, purple violets and a pink water lily within a dark circular outline with black swirls, on a person's upper back near the shoulder blade.

Rose, violets and water lily on upper back

Neo-trad · Back · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows a pink rose on the left, a cluster of purple violets across the centre and a pink water lily on the lower right, set against a pale green and yellow circular backdrop. Black outlines, dotted lines and curled swirls frame the arrangement, and the petals are shaded with soft highlights. The flowers are shown in full colour and fill the frame, with the person's skin visible around the edges.

Neo-trad Botanical Back Rose Flower Swirl Circle Dot

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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

The fiddler at Lowmere hall would not play past the second bell, and nobody asked him why. Everyone knew the tale of Ada Penrose, who danced one August with a stranger in a violet coat until the lamps guttered. She walked out at midnight with the music still in her feet, and she was never seen in the village again. Her sister swore the stranger's face was like the inside of a rose, all pink folds and no edges.

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Wenna Cole kept the bakehouse and did not believe in strangers. She believed in flour, in salt, and in the iron horseshoe over her door. On the last Saturday of August she pinned violets from the mill bank to her collar, tucked a horseshoe nail in her apron pocket, and climbed the hall steps. The fiddler struck a reel. A man crossed the boards with cool hands that smelled of wet stone and bruised stems, and asked her to dance the lily, the slow turn where partners hold palms and nobody's feet quite touch the floor.

They danced until the second bell rang and the fiddler's bow snapped mid-bar. Wenna looked down at her collar. Every violet had opened wide, and the tips of her fingers had gone green. The stranger bowed and stepped back into the lamplight, and his shadow fell across the wall in the shape of a water lily, shut tight like a fist. She ran home with the nail clutched so hard it printed a cross into her palm.

In the morning there was a pink rose frozen into the bakehouse window frost, and a violet pressed flat into the flour sack, its petals still wet. She hung the nail above the oven and never went to the hall again. Each August the fiddler plays on until the bell, the mill bank bursts purple, and Wenna scores a lily into the crust of every loaf she bakes, for anyone who asks what it means.