Small solid black palm tree tattoo on the upper chest, with a loose blue top pulled to one side.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small palm tree on the chest

Botanical · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A single palm tree with a curved trunk and a fan of fronds is tattooed in solid black ink on the upper chest. The shapes are bold silhouettes with little internal detail, and the trunk tapers toward the base. The tattoo sits centrally in the frame against pale skin, with a loose blue top draped to the left and a hand resting at the lower edge.

Botanical Chest Palm tree Tree

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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

You light the ovens at four because the flour has been sitting in the cold room since Tuesday and the dough will not wait for anybody's good intentions. The shutter is still down on Quay Street. Beyond the harbour wall the sky is the colour of wet slate, and the gulls haven't started yet, so the only sound is the tick of the big steel mixer warming up and the hiss of the gas catching.

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Above the proving racks hangs the old tin sign your uncle Desmond brought back from a winter in Tenerife in 1974. It shows a palm tree in black paint that has gone grey at the edges, its trunk bent slightly, as if it has leaned on the same wall for fifty years. Nobody in Saltcombe has ever seen a palm tree grow here. Desmond used to say that was the whole point, that a bakery needs one thing in it that isn't from round here, and then he would go back to complaining about the price of salt.

At six a girl from the caravan park comes in with rain running off her hood. She is maybe nine, holding a coin in a fist. She wants a loaf but only has enough for the heel, so you wrap the heel in a paper bag and add a split bun without saying anything about it. She stares up at the sign and asks whether the tree is real. You tell her it is a picture of one, and she nods as if that is the sensible answer, and takes her bag out into the grey.

When the door bell has stopped swinging, you slide the first tray into the oven. The heat rolls against your forearms, floury and bare, and the palm tree hangs above the door, black against the rising light, while the crust begins to colour.