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.
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.