Black botanical tattoo of a trailing branch with small leaves running down the inner forearm towards the wrist.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Trailing branch tattoo on a wrist

Botanical · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A photograph of a hand and forearm showing a black tattoo of a drooping branch with slender, pointed leaves. The branch curves from the wrist down the forearm, with tapering linework and a few scattered small marks beside it. The ink is black on a plain white background, which keeps the focus on the design.

Botanical Fine line Forearm Branch Leaves Foliage

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You reach the Scarrow Gap with the salt sacks still damp from the lower valley, and the wind is already pulling the snow sideways across the path. The only tree on the shelf is a stunted willow bent almost flat against the rock, its long shoots trailing down over the stones like hair left out in the rain. Your mule, Tobit, plants his feet and refuses to pass it, ears pinned back.

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Old Ferris, who kept the hut before the avalanche took it, used to say the willow was the mountain's weathervane. It never stands up against the weather. It lets the weight run down through its shoots and springs back once the snow slides off. You tie the lead rope to the lowest branch and wait while the cloud thins, counting the small dark birds that lift from its tips and scatter over the scree like pinched ash.

When a stranger comes up the track behind you, coughing, in a coat that is no protection at all, you do not offer him yours. You cut a long pale shoot with your knife, strip the leaves from the lower end, and lay it across the path so the drifting snow shows the edge of the drop. He stares at you as if you have lost your wits. You shrug. The tree was doing that for travellers long before you came up this way.

By dusk the three of you are down on the far side, and the willow is only a dark stroke on the ridge behind. Tobit finally walks past it, head low, the rope slack in your hand. The branch you cut is still lying in the snow, its leaves pointing downhill toward the village lights, and nobody thinks to pick it up.