The mound is unremarkable at first glance, the kind of gentle swelling in a field that a passing walker might take for a natural feature. But a row of three close-set upright stones protruding from its north-east side, aligned along the mound's long axis, and a further single standing stone emerging from its centre suggest something considerably older and more deliberate underneath.

The structure is classified as a possible megalithic tomb, a broad category covering prehistoric burial monuments typically constructed from large stones and raised earthen or stone mounds, many dating back four or five thousand years. Its proportions are substantial for what appears so modest in the landscape: roughly 16.4 metres along its north-north-east to south-south-west axis and 11.4 metres across, rising only 0.4 to 0.6 metres above the surrounding ground. Its outlines are sharpest at the north-west, north, and north-east sides, while the southern edge slumps and loses definition. What makes the site particularly interesting is what has not been known about it for so long. Neither the Ordnance Survey six-inch maps of 1838 nor those of 1922 record its existence, meaning it escaped formal cartographic attention for well over a century after systematic Irish mapping began.

The mound has not been entirely undisturbed. Heaps of loose stones and boulders piled against its eastern, north-western, and northern sides appear to be the product of relatively recent field clearance, the accumulated debris of generations of farmers moving rocks off productive ground. A small section of the south-south-east edge, measuring roughly four metres by two, has also been dug away at some point. These are familiar pressures on low-lying earthworks in agricultural landscapes, and they complicate any reading of what the original monument looked like before the land around it was repeatedly worked and cleared.