Healed colour tattoo on a forearm of a black and grey treble clef above blue, purple and pink flowers in a botanical style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Treble clef and flowers on a forearm

Botanical · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A shaded black and grey treble clef sits at the top of the design, with soft grey gradients along its curves. Below it, blue, purple and pink flowers, possibly daisies or asters, are rendered with watercolour-like shading. The design is centred on pale skin against a neutral background.

Botanical Forearm Treble clef Flower Daisy

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The fog came in off the Sound faster than the new keeper could find his boots, and Agnes Penhale was already on the gallery with the tuning fork between her teeth. The diaphragm horn had gone quiet at dusk, and Tomas was down in the engine room swearing at a fuse box that had been wired by someone who clearly disliked electricity. Agnes struck the fork against the rail and held it to the iron until the note hummed through her jaw. B flat. Her husband Joe had taught her that note in the chapel loft, along with the curl at the top of the clef, which he said looked like a question that had learned to dance.

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Below her, a trawler's bell clanged twice and went silent, which was worse than any horn. Tomas came up the stairs two at a time with grease on his cheek. He asked her how she knew the pitch, and she said she had sung it to Joe for thirty years so he could find his way home from the pub. He laughed, then didn't, because the boat was closer than either of them liked. Agnes sang the note into the grey, low and steady, and Tomas ran the cable by hand while she kept time against the rail. The horn coughed, caught, and bellowed out over the water.

An answering blast came back out of the murk, then another, then the scrape of oars on a hull that had found the channel. Tomas sat down on the step with his head in his hands and said nothing for a while.

Later, when the fog had thinned to a wet silver and the beam was sweeping steady over the rocks, Agnes sat at the lamp room table with her tea gone cold. She opened the tide tables to the back page, where the clef was drawn in faded pencil and the asters she had pressed in the spring lay in their folded paper. She added one small blue petal beside the curl, the way she always did when the signal had been needed, and closed the book.