Sun and moon on two fingers
Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo
Two small black tattoos sit on separate fingers of two interlocked hands. The upper finger carries an outlined sun with a ring and short radiating rays, while the lower finger carries a thin outlined crescent moon. The linework is clean and uniform, the ink is solid black with no shading, and the plain tiled floor and a chair base fill the soft-focus background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Mind the gate, it still squeals the way it did when your grandmother came through with her eggs. Sit close, because this is the tale of the sun and the moon, who were neighbours once, the way two quarrelling farmers are neighbours. They shared one hedge along the top of Haddon Rise, where the beeches stop and the village begins, and for a hundred summers they argued over whose shadow it was.
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Nobody in Corby Bottom could settle it. The sun said the hedge was his, because he warmed every thorn on it. The moon said it was hers, because she was the one who sat up with the ewes when the foxes came over the wall. So they agreed to take turns, the way children take turns with a skipping rope. The sun would hold the hedge from dawn until the bells of St Ebba rang four, and the moon would hold it from then until the owls gave up. The only rule was that neither could lean on the other's stile.
Then came the autumn the sun stayed late. He leaned on the stile anyway, and the moon, who was patient, waited in the blue of the beeches with her lantern unlit. Each evening the gap between their turns grew longer. Each evening she said nothing, because she knew a thing offered too quickly is thrown back. Eventually he lifted two fingers from the top bar, and she came down the bank and set two of hers beside them, and the hedge, for the first time in a century, had no argument on it at all.
If you go up to the stile at first light, you can still see where their fingers met, one patch of frost bright, one patch pale, and the dew never settles on either.
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