Fine line yin yang tattoo on the inner forearm, with a black sun ringed by yellow rays in the light half and a speckled moon in the shaded galaxy half.

Yin yang with sun and moon on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A yin yang symbol is tattooed on the inner forearm. The light half holds a black sun disc with yellow rays, and the dark half has soft grey shading with speckled stars and a textured moon. The thin black outline and clean circular composition are shown in a close, straight-on photograph.

Fine line Geometric Forearm Yin yang Sun Moon Galaxy Star

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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 tea has gone cold in the enamel mug again, and you are still at the tiller pretending the barge needs you more than the lock keeper does. Nell has already lowered the top gate at Sallow Weir and waved you through with a look that says she has seen the almanac too. Your father's copy is tucked under the cabin roof where he left it in March, its corner soft from years of damp hands, and today's date is circled twice in his pencil.

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By eleven the light on the water has gone thin and strange. The gulls have stopped squabbling over bread crusts and sit along the lock beams as though they are waiting for a bell. You climb onto the cabin roof with the almanac and watch the sun slide behind the moon's dark edge, a bite at a time, until the river turns the colour of pewter and the reeds on the far bank lose their greens. The cold rises off the water quickly. You pull your coat tighter and think about the symbol he scratched into the cabin door with a nail the summer you were nine: one half white, one half black, each holding a seed of the other.

You had always assumed the dark half was the empty one. But as the last sliver of sun narrows to a bright thread and then to nothing, the sky above you fills with pinpricks you have never once seen from the towpath, and the moon hangs among them like a pale stone at the bottom of a well. Your father never needed a telescope to find things. He only needed the lights to go out first.

When the sun returns, it comes back as a ring of fire, and the barge slides forward into the glare as if nothing happened. You open the logbook and write the time in neat capitals: ECLIPSE, 11.14, TWO HOURS BEHIND FOR HEBDEN. Then, underneath, because nobody else will read it: STARS VISIBLE. Dad was right about the dark.