Black fine line botanical tattoo of wildflower stems, leaves and daisy-like blooms running down a forearm resting on an open book.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Wildflower stems and leaves on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A forearm carries a black botanical tattoo of a trailing wildflower stem with several leaves, a spray of small buds at the top and daisy-like flowers near the wrist. The linework is fine and even, with little or no shading, so the stems and petals read as outlines. The forearm rests across an open book on a pale background, with the tattoo running diagonally from the elbow towards the hand.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Wildflower Stem Leaves Daisy Bud Foliage Flower

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The vicar's wife wanted the verges pressed before the council men came with their hooks, so on the Tuesday I walked the Bradfield lane with a tin of blotting paper and my late mother's pencil case. The bindweed had come over the drystone wall in long, trailing ropes, and the ox-eye daisies stood in the ditch like someone had counted them out and forgotten to take them home. I picked what I could carry and drew what I couldn't.

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I drew in ink, because pencil smudged in the damp of the schoolroom and Mr Pryce, the chemist, had been telling everyone that the knapweed was a tonic for the blood. He came to see the drawings on the Thursday and held them up to the window one at a time. He said the leaves looked like they were still breathing. I didn't tell him that I had started drawing a stem from the lane that ran straight down the margin of the page, past the edge of the paper and onto the oilcloth, because I hadn't been able to stop it.

The council men never came. Mrs Tennant said it was the rain, though the rain had been the same all week. What I did find, when I lifted the parish register from the vestry shelf to press the last of the flowers, was that someone had already laid a sprig of daisies between the pages of the baptisms, pale and flat and perfectly preserved. Beneath it, in my mother's hand, was a name I didn't recognise. I left it where it was and pressed my own flowers beside it.