Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Swallow on a forearm
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A swallow in mid-flight with its wings swept back and a forked tail trailing down. The bird is drawn in crisp black outline with hatching and cross-hatching across the wings and body to create tone. The design sits on the forearm against a pale skin tone, with a blurred dark and metallic background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The swallows came back to the harbour wall the same week the Marguerite Lowe was due in, and Eamon Driscoll swore every spring that they knew the tide tables better than the harbourmaster. He was sitting on an upturned creel with a mug of stewed tea going cold between his boots when young Bridie came running down the slipway, her boots slapping the wet stone, a letter crushed in one fist.
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"It's from Halifax," she said, and didn't wait for him to ask. "Her brother's signed on. He says the ship's rounding the Horn and they'll be a month late, maybe two."
Eamon nodded at the sky. A pair of birds were stitching the grey air above the pier, their wings swept back like the blades of a knife, forked tails streaming out behind them. "Those fellows crossed the Atlantic twice in their lives," he said. "Never once asked a soul for directions. They just tipped their wings and went."
Bridie sat down beside him on the cold wall and read the letter aloud, all four pages, slowly, skipping nothing. When she finished the birds had dropped low over the water, dipping and skimming the swell, and the light had gone the colour of pewter.
"Well," said Eamon, standing and stretching his back until it cracked. "We'll be wanting a fire lit, then. A fellow who's been that far can't be expected to find his own front door the first night home."
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