Three teal birds perched on a branch
Fine line · Upper arm · Mixed · Photo
Three small songbirds sit along a single sketchy black branch that runs across the skin, with a second thinner branch below. The birds are outlined in dark strokes and shaded in teal and blue, with soft pinkish tones on their breasts. The linework is loose and the composition is centred, with the branch extending past the birds on both sides.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The ladder is still leaning against the Bramley when you come back up the lane, and the windfalls have gone soft in the long grass where your brother left them. Three songbirds sit on the bare low branch of the old pear, the one nobody has pruned since the war, their backs the colour of a kingfisher's wing where the light catches them. They do not fly when you climb. They watch you sideways and unimpressed, the way the Hollis sisters watched the vicar.
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Your grandmother said the three of them were the ones who refused to leave when the orchard was sold. At dusk, she claimed, they turned the blue of the sea off Cornwall, which she had seen once and never forgiven. You do not believe her. You are seventeen, the picking money is short, and the buyer's man wants the branch down by Friday.
So you sit on the bottom rung with a saw across your knees and wait. The first bird shifts its weight. The second lifts its pale breast as if about to sing, and the third opens its wings a little, the way a clerk opens a ledger he has already decided not to show you. Late wasps drone in the windfalls. Somewhere beyond the hedge a tractor starts and stops.
When the light goes amber you climb, saw in hand, and the branch gives under you as if it had been waiting. The birds don't move. You reach past them for the cut, and the top bird leans into your palm, warm and light as a folded note. You lower the saw. Friday can wait for the buyer, you decide, and the pear keeps its three.
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