Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Three rearing horses on a forearm
Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
Three small horses rise on their hind legs in a vertical line along the inner forearm, each one a dark silhouette with some fine internal detail. A dashed trail runs between them and ends in a small cloud-like puff at the bottom. The image is black and white, with the wrist and raised hand at the top of the frame against a pale, textured surface.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The grey mare has gone over the sea wall again, and you are the one who has to fetch her back before Mr Tallis sees the gate hanging open. Nobody on Skerry keeps horses any more, not since the ferry stopped after the winter gales, so the ones that remain run wild on the machair and come down to the harbour only to stare at the boats.
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You find her on the slipway, rearing against nothing, her forelegs pawing the air above the weed. She does it three times while you watch, climbing a little higher each time as though the wind were a rung she could reach. Behind her a thin dashed line of spray hangs over the water where her hooves have struck, and at the end of it the sea breaks into a soft white puff that drifts off towards the lighthouse.
When you lay your hand on her neck she is warm, which surprises you, because the old tales say the island horses are spun from sea fog and go cold at dusk. Mr Tallis's lamp is already lit in the window above the quay. You lead her up the track, and at every bend she stops and lifts herself onto her hind legs, as if to show you the path is not as flat as you believed.
At the top of the hill the gate has been mended, and nobody has noticed anything at all. Only in the morning there is a line of small hoofprints in the dew that climb straight up off the grass and stop in the air, and you stand there with your boots soaked through, counting them, certain they will be waiting again tomorrow.
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