Small black fine line triskele tattoo with three spiralling arms on the inner wrist, shown with an open palm resting on a patterned fabric.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Triskele tattoo on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small triskele, three curved arms spiralling from a central point, sits on the inner wrist and forearm of an open hand resting on a patterned woven surface. The linework is thin and dark, with some stippled shading within the arms giving the design a slightly textured look. The image is in black and grey, with the tattoo placed off-centre to the right and the hand filling the upper left of the frame.

Fine line Geometric Forearm Spiral Hand Wrist

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The sundial had been my aunt's, and after the frost took the winter greens it fell to me to clear the bed beneath it, which meant kneeling in wet soil with a trowel and a bad temper. The stone sat where the two walls met, its face gone to grey lichen, and cut into the plinth were three curved arms spiralling out from a single point. Aunt Ysolde used to say they were three roads that all ran back to the same gate, and that a person who understood that would never get lost in her own garden.

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I did not understand it. In March I tried to plant the leeks in a straight line, and by the time I looked up the row had bent round the sundial like a dropped ribbon. Mrs Pryce from the cottage over the lane leaned on the wall with her tea and told me the stone had been moved twice and always set back facing the same way, which was the only thing about the place she was sure of. She said the arms turned with the sun, not against it, and I assumed she was being kind about my leeks.

The last seed packet had been sitting in the shed since autumn, marked in Ysolde's square capitals. Beneath the instructions, in pencil, she had drawn the sundial with its three arms and written one word I could barely read: ONWARD, or perhaps ONWARDS, the ink too faded to say. I sowed the rows in the order the arms pointed, clockwise, one spiral of drills working in from the wall towards the stone.

By June the bed had come up in a ring of dark fronds with three bare gaps where nothing would take. I stood at the wall with my sleeves pushed up and the sun on my wrist and worked out that I had sown it the wrong way round, or that the stone had been right all along. The parsnips, when they came, had grown in a spiral, and I left them standing, because Ysolde had never once told me which road was the right one.