Small black fine line tattoo of a triangle enclosing an eye, on the inner forearm of a woman with her back to the camera.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small triangle tattoo on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A woman is photographed from behind, wearing a cream sleeveless dress with a lattice cut-out back and a flower crown of yellow, lilac and white blooms. A small black tattoo of a triangle enclosing an eye sits on her arm near the elbow, with simple outlined linework and no shading. The warm, soft-focus outdoor setting is mostly neutral and natural in tone, with the tattoo as a small, sharp accent in the lower left.

Fine line Geometric Forearm Triangle Eye Tattoo Flower Flower crown Dress

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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

The lambing shed at Hollin Fold has one bulb that works, and by four in the morning in February you have learned to read the ewes by their shadows on the whitewashed wall. Your grandfather's tin lantern hangs from the hook by the door, its glass scratched with the rough triangle he cut for it, and you carry it the way he did, low, so the light falls on the straw and not in the faces of the mothers.

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Mr Dacre from the next valley rang on Tuesday to say the snow had closed the top road and his wife had gone into labour, and would you come with the Land Rover. You did not own a Land Rover. You owned a sledge, two dogs who disliked each other, and a reputation for being up before the frost. You went anyway, down the lane where the hedges were humped white, and the lantern swung against your knee like a second heartbeat.

Nothing happened the way the almanac said it would. The baby came feet first, in the kitchen, with the kettle boiling over and Dacre holding the lamp at the wrong angle. You turned the child, and you did not look away from the work, and when the cry came it was thin and furious and the first thing it saw was your face bent close above it.

Walking home at dawn, the sky the colour of skimmed milk, you stopped at the stile and looked back down the valley. Every window was dark except one. Someone was watching the road for you, the way you had once watched it for your grandfather, and you lifted the lantern high so they could see it was still there.