The walls, built from uncoursed mortared rubble, meaning rough stones laid without the neat horizontal lines of dressed masonry, survive to between 1.2 and 1.5 metres in height, and the footprint is modest: eleven metres east to west, seven metres north to south. What makes the place quietly puzzling is not its ruined state but its silences. No openings can be identified in the surviving fabric, so where people entered, where light fell, how the building was oriented for worship, none of this can be read from what remains.

The church occupies the centre of a rectangular graveyard enclosed by stone walls, a fairly typical arrangement for early ecclesiastical sites in Ireland where the sacred enclosure often predates or outlasts the building it contains. More curious is a second walled graveyard immediately to the east, which the nineteenth-century Ordnance Survey six-inch maps record with no church marked at all. Whether a structure once stood there and vanished entirely before the surveyors arrived, or whether the two enclosures served different purposes or communities, is not clear. In 2008, test trenches were excavated nearby under licence to assess the ground ahead of a sports complex development, but nothing of archaeological significance came to light.