Fine line tattoo of a small sprig with pink blossoms and green stems on the inside of an ankle.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small pink flower sprig on an ankle

Fine line · Ankle · Colour · Photo

A small sprig of stems carries clusters of pink blossoms and a few purple buds, with thin green leaves along the branches. The linework is delicate and the shading is soft, giving a watercolour-like, translucent finish. The design sits on the inner ankle against pale skin, with a grey sleeve cuff at the top of the frame and a blurred grey background.

Fine line Botanical Ankle Flower Sprig Blossom Stem Leaf Bud

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The cutting had been wrapped in wet flannel since Madeira, and by the time the Ardent raised the Horn, Ruth Pennock had stopped expecting it to live. She kept it in a stoppered jar on the chart table, where the roll of the ship could not reach it, and checked the flannel each morning before she checked the glass.

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Three weeks out from Plymouth the first blossoms had opened along the stem, pink and small as the tips of a child's fingers, and below them the purple buds sat tight and unconvinced. The mate, a Cornishman called Dobbs, called it her weed. She let him. Nobody aboard had seen a flower since the Canaries, except the one painted on the bosun's tobacco tin, and that had faded to the colour of weak tea.

The sprig was meant for Esther Lowe, who kept the only shop at Port Stanley and had written to the agent asking for something green that was not kelp. Ruth had promised her a cutting from the hedge behind her father's house in Devon, though she had not said which hedge, or that the bush had been half dead when she took it. Past the latitude of the Falklands the wind backed west and the jar slid twice across the table before she caught it with both hands.

Esther came down to the jetty in a man's oilskin coat. She did not take the jar at once. She unscrewed the stopper, sniffed the water as if it might be gin, and said the flowers looked like the ones from her mother's window in Aberdeen. They planted it that evening in a tin of peat beside the shop door. When Ruth sailed in March there was still one pink bloom, lifted against a wind that nothing on that rock had any reason to bear.