Fine line black tattoo of a slender sprig with three leaves and a small bell-shaped flower on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small botanical sprig on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small single-needle style sprig curves diagonally across the forearm, with three slender pointed leaves along a thin stem and a tiny bud-like flower at the lower end. The linework is even and crisp, rendered in solid black ink with no shading. The skin around the tattoo looks slightly pink and the composition is centred on the design with plenty of empty skin around it.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Sprig Leaves Flower Stem

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

The wind off the Wether Gap had teeth by noon, and you were glad of the oilcloth bundle buttoned inside your coat, because the letter in it was the only thing on the hill that had been asked to stay dry.

Keep reading

Halfway up the zigzag you stopped at a cairn to fix a loose boot and found a sprig caught under a flat stone. Three narrow leaves ran along a thread of stem, and at the bottom hung a bud no bigger than a thimble, bent over as if listening. Someone had pressed it there on purpose. The tag tied to the stalk was written in the hand you knew from Cwm Eithin: For Dafydd, from the high farm. Mair Llwyd had not come down to the village since Easter.

You weighed the letter and the sprig in your palm. Rain began to speckle the slate. You could have left the thing where it lay, but you were the postman, and a tag was a tag. So you tucked the sprig beside the oilcloth and climbed on, counting the cairns the way your father taught you, one, two, three, until the path tipped over the top and the valley opened below like a dropped coat.

At the farm gate Mair was waiting with her arms folded and no coat at all. She took the sprig without a word, turned it to the light, and laughed once, sharp. It's willow from the lower bank, she said. Dafydd always swore it would never root up here. She set the bud in a jam jar on the sill, where the rain could not reach it, and went back inside without shutting the door.