Colour tattoo of yellow and orange flowers with green stems and leaves in a Art Nouveau style on a person's shoulder and upper arm.

Yellow and orange flowers on a shoulder

Neo-trad · Shoulder · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows several large yellow and orange flower heads, possibly peonies or roses, with pink shading in the petals and a cluster of green leaves and curving stems wrapping around the shoulder. Bold black outlines define the petals and leaves, with flat, soft colour fills and little visible shading. The design fills the upper shoulder and extends onto the upper back, with the subject's head turned away from the camera.

Neo-trad Botanical Shoulder Flower Peony Rose Leaves Stem Floral

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the step, that third board has been rotten since the storm took the wall off the lower garden. Sit by the range and get your feet back. Old Mrs Pellow kept the peony beds behind the chapel at Harrow Quay, and she grew them the way other women knit, without looking, her mind on something else. Yellow ones, the colour of wet sand, that opened to orange at the edges like a scorch creeping up paper. Pink under the folds, as if they'd blushed at their own cheek.

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Her nephew Tobias came down from the works in Hull every August to carry sacks and sulk. He wanted to sell the beds to a man from the railway who'd pay for them in cut stems by the gross. Mrs Pellow said no the way she said everything, which was by moving her trowel six inches to the left and saying nothing for an afternoon.

Then the frost came early that year, the kind that splits stems before the buds know they're dead. Tobias went out at midnight with a lantern and a face like thunder, meaning to salvage what he could for the railway man. He came back at dawn with his coat full of blackened stalks and not one flower. What he found instead was the climbing green vines, the ones that wrap the beds like they're holding something in, all bent low and frost-silvered, every one of them curled round a single bloom. The last one, opened in the cold, bright as a struck match.

He didn't cut it. He went up to the chapel, wrote the railway man a letter that said the beds were spoken for, and then sat on the third step, the rotten one, and waited for his aunt to wake up and tell him he'd done right.