Close photo of a small black and grey peacock tattoo in fine line style on the inner forearm near the wrist.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small peacock on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small peacock with its head raised and a long, feathered tail sweeps down the inner forearm near the wrist. The bird is drawn with fine outlines and soft, stippled grey shading in the tail feathers. The photo is taken from above at an angle, with a hand with dark nail varnish raised at the top and a navy fabric with pale polka dots behind.

Fine line Forearm Peacock Feather Bird

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The peacock had come off the schooner Marigold Wren in October, crated in the hold beneath a sack of tea and a letter nobody claimed. Nell Tranter, who mended nets on the slipway at Porthkerris, was the only one who fed it. It walked the quay with its head held high, as though the fishing boats were beneath its notice.

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Her brother Sam thought it a nuisance. He said it screamed at the gulls and frightened the day trippers, and that it would end up in somebody's chowder before Christmas. Nell kept a tin of mackerel scraps by the net store and let the bird come when it liked. In November the wind swung north-east and the harbour filled with grey rain, and the peacock stood on a mooring bollard for three days with its tail folded down like a wet umbrella.

On the fourth morning the rain cleared off over the headland. Low sun came across the water, and the bird lifted its tail all at once, every feather opening into a fan of fine grey lines, each one still holding a bead of rain that lit like a scatter of pennies. Sam came out of the boathouse with a half-tarred rope over his shoulder and stopped dead. For once he said nothing at all, and Nell understood that he had seen what she had been seeing for weeks.

The Wren's agent wrote in January asking after the bird, but by then Sam had built a perch from an old lobster pot and painted the name Marigold on the boathouse door in case anyone came asking. Nell wrote back that the peacock had gone where the wind goes. It stayed all winter, moulting grey feathers that the gulls carried off one by one, and every so often she still found one caught on the net-store nails, fine as a pencil stroke, with the light running down it.