Colour tattoo of a sunflower with green leaves across a shoulder and upper chest, in a botanical style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Sunflower tattoo across shoulder and chest

Botanical · Shoulder · Colour · Photo

A large sunflower with yellow and orange petals and a dark, orange-ringed centre sits across the shoulder and upper chest. Green leaves extend along the collarbone and down towards the chest, with soft shading on the petals and leaves. The warm-toned photo shows the tattoo against a dark top and a blurred interior background.

Botanical Realism Shoulder Chest Sunflower Leaves Flower Petal Stem

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit nearer the grate, all of you, and mind the draught from the door, because the snow has been piling against it since noon and it will want its share of the room. Now. You'll have heard of Mabel Quarrie who kept the mill at Hollin Bridge. She never once in forty years let a sunflower go to seed in her yard without first shooing the hens off it. Folk laughed. A sunflower is only a weed that got above itself, they said, a great yellow face that turns its back on the lane.

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But Mabel's husband had gone over the mountain road in the first hard winter and never come down, and she had kept one seed from the last August of his life tied in a handkerchief. She planted it the day the thaw broke, in the stony corner where the cart used to park. It came up thin and furious. By the time the stalk stood the height of a man, the head had opened like a lamp, petals going from butter to marigold to rust at the tips, and the centre dark as a peat pool with a ring of copper round it, as if someone had drawn it with a warm pencil.

In the second autumn the leaves came down the stalk broad and green, one after another, and the whole yard smelled of crushed stem. Mabel stopped tying the head up against the wind. She said she had nothing left to keep straight. That year the seeds fell into the snow and the birds came for them, and the next spring there were sunflowers in every yard along Hollin Bridge, nodding at the lane as though they had always owned it.

So when you walk down in the morning, mind the drifts, and look at the corner by the old cart shed. There's nothing there now but black stalks bent under the white. Yet every spring a boot print goes past it on the way to the mill, and somebody always stops to look back.