Fine line tattoo of a green and black laurel wreath on the ankle, with leaves curving around an open base.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small laurel wreath on an ankle

Fine line · Ankle · Mixed · Photo

A small open wreath of leaves curves around the ankle, drawn with thin dark outlines and filled with soft green shading. The leaves alternate along two stems that meet at a short stalk at the bottom. The wreath sits centrally on a pale background, with a second leg and white fabric softly out of focus at the edges.

Fine line Botanical Ankle Laurel Wreath Leaves Stem

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The bay tree in the pot outside the caravan had lost two leaves for every one it grew, and Mab Penrose counted them each morning the way other people counted coins. The circus had been down to four wagons since the bears went to a zoo in Leeds, and the big top had a tear along its seam that nobody could afford to stitch. Only the grey mare, Duchess, still walked the ring without being asked twice.

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In the old days a man from the council had put a wreath on the mare's head at the Lincoln fair, the year she cleared the barrels and the whole field stood up cheering. That wreath was laurel, cut from a hedge behind the church, and it had dried to paper and then to dust in a biscuit tin. Mab kept the tin. She said a thing given for winning could not be thrown out, even when the winning had stopped.

One February the wind took the top off the tent and the show packed into the last shed behind the chapel. Mab went out in the frost with a pair of secateurs and cut every green sprig from the bay tree and from the hedge by the gate. She bound them with garden wire on the kitchen table, working until her fingers would not bend, and the wreath came out lopsided and heavy.

She put it on the mare at the start of the last show, in front of nine people and a dog. Duchess lowered her head as if she had been waiting for it, and walked one slow lap of sawdust with the leaves catching the lamplight, as if the ring were the Lincoln fair all over again. Nobody clapped loudly. Afterwards Mab said it was the best night they had ever had, and that the mare had carried it like a queen who knew the road home.