Black and grey fine line tattoo of a wildflower bouquet with a poppy, daisy and foxglove on a forearm.

Wildflower bouquet on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A bouquet of wildflowers is tattooed on the inner forearm, with a large poppy-like bloom at the centre, a daisy-style flower to its right, and foxglove-like bells and slender buds rising above. Leaves and stems gather into a tied bunch at the base, all drawn in fine, even outlines with light shading inside the petals and leaves. The ink is entirely black and grey against pale skin, and the bouquet fills the centre of the frame on a wooden floor background, with the edge of another dark tattoo visible at the bottom.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Bouquet Wildflower Poppy Daisy Leaves Bud Stem

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Aunt Win kept the rule that flowers for the dining room could only come from the lane behind the chapel, never the dunes, so every Saturday I walked the long way round with a knife in my cardigan pocket and a ball of garden twine. The poppies grew loose along the verge, red and going papery by noon. The ox-eye daisies crowded the gate to Hollis's field. The foxgloves I was not to touch at all, because Win said they could stop a heart, so I cut them last and fastest, with one eye on the road.

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I tied the bunch on the back step where the sea wind couldn't reach it. Mr Acton, the lodger in room four who drew plants for a seed firm in Ipswich, watched from his deckchair with a sketchbook on his knee. "You bunch like a fishwife," he said. "Turn the stems in, not out. Make it look like it's keeping something." I told him the foxgloves were for the middle because they were tall and made the table look planned. He said nothing about poison, which I had expected, and only drew, quick and sure, the bells curling down from their stalks.

The week he left, a letter came for him with the afternoon post, and he read it standing in the hall with his hat still on. Then he came into the dining room, where I was stacking cups, and handed me the sketchbook open at the page. The bouquet was there in pencil, every bbloom in its place, the poppy fat at the centre and the foxglove bells rising behind like a row of small lanterns. Beneath it, in the careful capitals of a man who labels seeds, he had written: FOR THE TABLE. KEEP THE BELLS AWAY FROM THE PUDDING. I still tie my bunches with the stems turned in, the way he showed me, so nothing can work itself loose from the middle.