Two forearms held together, one with an olive-toned wheat botanical tattoo and the other with a grey-blue lavender botanical tattoo, both on the forearm.

Wheat and lavender botanical forearm tattoos

Botanical · Forearm · Colour · Photo

Two forearms are shown side by side, with the hands clasped in the lower part of the frame. The left arm carries a tattoo of wheat stalks with olive and yellow-green shading, and the right arm carries a lavender sprig in grey-blue tones. Both designs use defined outlines with soft shading, set against a dim, muted background.

Botanical Forearm Wheat Lavender Stem Leaves Plant Flower

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The ferry was late again, so the biscuit tin sat on my knee for the whole crossing and nobody asked what was rattling inside it. Lavender cuttings, wrapped in wet newspaper, their grey tips already bent from the spray. Everyone on Scarra knew the stems would never take here. The wind strips anything soft, and every bush Granny planted in the walled garden lay flat by her first winter. The mainland shore would be different, Ina had written. Sheltered, and on the south side.

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Our side of the sound grew wheat instead, in the gully behind the kirk where the peat was deep and the gusts could not reach. My father sowed it every April from seed kept in a dry jar under the stairs, the same seed his grandfather had carried home from Orkney tied in a wool sock. We ate most of it. The rest we swapped with the Macleans for honey, and every year the heads came up a shade paler, as if the field were tired of being asked.

The arrangement had been Granny's idea before she died: one stalk of wheat for every sprig of lavender, each pressed between the pages of the parish register so neither family could cheat. I counted them out on the deck with fingers gone numb. Eleven wheat stalks had gone over in July. Twelve lavender sprigs sat in the tin now. Ina said the extra one was for luck. I suspected it was for the children on her side who had never seen a field.

At the pier Ina stood waiting with her arms folded. She opened the tin, looked at the sprigs, and laughed, because the wheat she had sent back in August had already sprouted in its damp paper, two green threads curling toward the lid. "They'll grow where they're put," she said, and handed the tin to me as if it might spill.