It is classified as a barrow, a term covering a broad family of prehistoric burial mounds and funerary enclosures, and what makes this one quietly arresting is how much of it has survived. At roughly twelve metres in diameter, it is defined by a bank of earth and stone enclosing an interior that dips slightly hollow, the kind of subtle depression that suggests something deliberate happened here long ago.

Running outside the bank, from the north-west around through the east and down to the south, a distinct band of vegetation may be all that remains of a fosse, the shallow ditch that would originally have encircled the monument and given it a more pronounced profile in the landscape. Over time, ditches fill, banks erode, and the vegetation above disturbed or differently-draining ground is often the last legible trace. Two gaps in the bank, one at the east and one at the south-south-west, appear to be modern breaks rather than original entrances, and a field wall has been built across the structure at both the south-west and north-west, the ordinary agricultural logic of later centuries cutting straight through something far older without ceremony.

The monument sits on the slope of a small hill, which would have been a deliberate choice by whoever constructed it. Elevated ground was frequently selected for barrows, whether to mark the dead within the wider landscape or to make a claim on a particular place. This one in Lissananny offers a clear example of how such sites persist not through dramatic preservation but through the quiet stubbornness of earthworks that have simply never been fully levelled.