When the Irish poet Thomas Moore went on in a lamenting sort of way about ‘the last rose of summer’ it was 1805 and I’d guess he wasn’t looking at routine double-figure temperatures in November.

There is no last rose of summer any more. There might be a last rose of late winter at some point, I suppose, but this is, these days, a late summer or autumn flower. If not a winter one.

Certainly here it is, November tomorrow, and my garden is full of roses.

An unidentified miniature patio rose growing in the kids’ garden.

Rosa ‘Perpetually Yours’

A budding Rosa ‘Dublin Bay’

Lots of buds on my container-grown Rosa ‘Wildeve’


and the Rosa ‘New Dawn’ on the front of the house is flowering its heart out still.
I just can’t make my mind up if I like it.
I love that my garden is full of roses: who couldn’t like that? But they look all wrong among the autumn leaves somehow.
And can you imagine having roses on the table for Christmas dinner?
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