Small red rose with a green stem and leaves on the inner forearm, beside a fine black line curving towards the wrist in a fine line botanical style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small red rose on the forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A small red rose in full bloom sits on the forearm, with a thin green stem and two small green leaves extending down and to the left. A fine black line runs from the upper edge of the image to a small looped shape near the wrist. The rose is rendered in soft red shading with the background skin and wooden floor visible around it, and the composition is a close, slightly angled view of the arm.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Rose Stem Leaves Line Flower

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rope came off the bollard wet and stiff, and Dad swore at it the way he swore at everything that had been in the river longer than he had. I coiled it on the cabin roof while the Mary Ellen drifted off the wall at Scarrow Lock, the engine thudding up through the deck into my boots. We were fourteen days from the sale yard at Keel Hythe, and the cutting was riding in a jam jar by the tiller.

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Mrs Oake had given it to me on the lock-keeper's step, wrapped in last week's Gazette and damp as a flannel. The rose climbed the cottage wall behind her, and she said it had been there since her husband's mother planted it, and that a rose would root anywhere if you were stubborn enough to let it. I had one green stem with two leaves and a single bud the colour of a boiled sweet. Dad said it would die before Ferriby. It did not die. It sat in the jar on the sill through three locks and a flood warning, and every morning I checked it the way you check a sleeping dog.

At Keel Hythe the new owners were waiting on the quay with a clipboard and a van. Dad stood on the gunwale while I made the last line fast to the iron ring set in the wall, a little looped shape of black rust that had held a hundred boats before us. I pulled the knot tight and stepped back.

I took the cutting up the bank, pressed it into the soft ground under the ring, and watered it from the river with my cupped hands. When I turned round, the rope was still looped through the iron, and the boat was already going, and Dad was lifting one hand from the tiller without looking back.