Colour tattoo of a bouquet of wildflowers with poppies, daisies and sprigs of foliage on the inner forearm, drawn in a bold outlined botanical style.

Wildflower bouquet on a forearm

Botanical · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A bouquet of flowers including poppy-like blooms, daisies and small round-headed flowers, with sprigs of leaves and herbs, spreads up the forearm from the wrist. The linework is dark and even, with flat fills of soft pink, peach, yellow and muted green. The bouquet is arranged in a loose upward cluster that fills the forearm, set against a blurred warm background.

Botanical Traditional Forearm Flower Bouquet Poppy Daisy Leaves Herb Wildflower

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The tin was the only dry thing left in my bunk by the third week out, so I kept it wedged between my knees while the Sophia rolled and counted the packets again for something to do. Corn poppy, ox-eye daisy, red campion, wild thyme, and a twist of paper my mother had labelled only Hale's hedge, in pencil that had nearly rubbed away. I had promised Nell the seeds would keep. Seeds keep better than sailors, Captain Rennie told me, and laughed until he coughed.

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The voyage was meant to carry tea out to Valparaíso and bring copper home, but my real cargo was a promise made to Nell on the chalk above Clevedon harbour, where we used to lie on our backs and name the clouds. She wanted the old verge back. The council had ploughed it for a car park, and she had written me three letters in the same furious hand. So I sewed the seeds into oilcloth with a sailmaker's stitch and carried them past the Horn, past the ice and the gannets and a mate who insisted the thyme was medicine and tried to steal a pinch of it for his chest.

On the last night before Bristol the sea went flat as a plate. I sat on the hatch cover with the tin open and sorted the seeds by colour, which was pointless, because they all looked like dust and grit. Rennie came up with two mugs of cocoa and asked what I'd do if they didn't take. I said I'd plant them anyway, badly, in the wrong month, and see what came up.

In April a letter arrived that held one dried poppy head, flattened between two pages of the parish register. Nell had scratched a line under it. Three of them came up, she wrote, and one daisy, and a thyme that smells of the sea when you tread on it. She had not cut the verge down yet. She wanted to know if I was coming to see it.