Small black fine line tattoo of a sun and crescent moon on the inner ankle, above a black canvas trainer.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Sun and crescent moon on an ankle

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A small tattoo of a sun with a dotted ring of rays beside a crescent moon, both drawn in thin black outline. The tattoo sits on the side of an ankle above a black and white canvas shoe, with dark trousers and a wooden floor visible. The ink is black with no shading, and the composition is centred on the ankle with plenty of empty skin around the design.

Fine line Ankle Sun Moon Crescent moon Celestial

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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 chart said we were four hundred leagues from Montevideo, and the sky disagreed. Mr Harrow had been at the sextant since the middle watch, swearing at the clouds, and when the sun finally broke through the grey it was already leaning westward, pale as a coin left in the rain. Low and lopsided across from it hung the moon, a paring of light with its back turned to the sun.

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I had been aboard the Corinna Vale eleven weeks as ship's clerk, which meant I kept the log, counted the biscuit and was expected to be useless in the rigging. Harrow taught me to take a sight anyway. 'Sun in the morning, moon at evening,' he said, 'and between them you have the whole ledger of the sea.' I thought him a sentimental old fool until the morning he handed me the brass instrument and told me to find the noon altitude myself.

I got it wrong three days running. The horizon blurred and the glare swam in the glass like something alive. On the fourth morning I took the reading with the moon still up, a faint crescent over the starboard rail, and the figures came out true for the first time. Harrow only nodded and went below. I stayed on deck sketching in the back of the log: a round sun ringed with little spikes, and beside it the moon curved like the edge of a fingernail.

We raised Montevideo nine days later. I left the ship with my wages and the sextant wrapped in a wool sock, and I never learned whether Harrow meant the lesson or only the sky. What I kept was that drawing, which I copied again onto the flyleaf of a borrowed almanac in a harbour chandlery, pressing so lightly the lines barely held.