Small black silhouette of a pine tree tattooed on the inner forearm near the wrist, photographed against a floral bedsheet.

Single pine tree on the forearm

Botanical · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small, solid black silhouette of a tall pine or conifer with tiered branches and a thin trunk sits on the inner forearm. The tree is filled in with dense black ink and has soft, feathered edges, with no shading or added colour. The photo is taken at an angle with a warm, slightly faded tone, and the wrist and hand are visible at the bottom of the frame.

Botanical Forearm Pine tree Tree Conifer Silhouette

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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 bread had gone to stone by the third night out of Tromsø, and Arne Holm swore it was the sea's doing, not mine. I didn't argue. I was twenty-two, the galley was the size of a wardrobe, and the stove ran hot on one side and cold on the other. Each morning I stood at the porthole with stewed tea and watched the coast slide past: black rock, then black water, then the dark wall of spruce above the fjord.

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There was one tree I kept watching for. It stood alone on a headland north of the last village, tall and narrow, its branches stacked in ragged tiers like something cut from paper. Arne said it was a pine, or a fir, he never could tell them apart. I asked how a tree could stand alone like that with nothing to shelter it. He said that was the trick of it, and went back to his pipe.

We rounded the headland in fog on the fourth morning. The engine note dropped and I came up the companionway with the kettle still in my hand, and there it was: one black spike against the pale grey, exactly as I had pictured it all week. I stood there until the kettle boiled over and hissed on the stove, and I didn't go down to take it off.

In Harstad I bought proper flour and a jar of cloudberry jam, and pencilled my name on the galley beam under Arne's. The next morning the bread rose high and clean. I gave the first loaf to the man who had carried my bag up the gangway, and told him a tree had taught me patience. He laughed all the way to the chandler's.