Watercolour-style tree tattoo on the inner forearm, with bare black branches over orange, pink and blue washes and small birds above.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Watercolour tree on a forearm

Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A bare-branched tree with a black, sketchy trunk sits on the forearm, with its crown filled by loose washes of orange, pink, yellow and blue. Small black birds and a leaf float above the top of the tree. The black linework is fine and broken, while the colour is soft and bleeds outward like watercolour paint, set against a dark leather background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Tomasz,

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The sycamore came into leaf on the Tuesday, the week after the gulls went quiet, and I thought you'd want to know before the mainland post took it into its head to send you news about the price of paraffin. It is the one growing out of the crack below the east gallery, the one you swore would die the first winter. It has not died. It has stood in the wind since before either of us was born, bare as a coat hanger all through January, and now every branch has a small green smudge at its tip, as if someone has tested the ink.

Mr Pryce from the boathouse says the old keepers used to hang lanterns in it so the boats could find the harbour mouth. I don't believe him, but I hung one there anyway on Sunday, just to see. The light came through the crown and the whole thing caught fire, orange, then rose, then a blue I have never seen the sea make. Morag from Ardnish came out in her dressing gown to look, and she stood on the rocks crying about nothing in particular, the way people do when a thing is more beautiful than they expected.

The birds came in on the Thursday, a dozen or so, and in the night they all lifted off towards the Ross, leaving one leaf turning in the air above the lamp housing. I caught it in my hand. It was the same colour as the sunset. I've pressed it into the ledger, at the page where you wrote your last entry, so you'll find it there when you come back and read the date.

Come home in April. The tree won't wait for you, but I will, and the branches are coming on fast.

Yours, Ailsa

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