Whatever inscriptions they once carried, whether names, dates, or devotional carvings, are pressed against the earth, invisible and slowly becoming so. It is the kind of detail that stops you: the possibility that something legible survives underneath, unread.

The graveyard occupies what was once the cloister garth of the abbey, the roughly square open courtyard around which the monastic community would have walked and worked. The space measures approximately 26 metres along its north-west to south-east axis and just over 25 metres across, still roughly square, still grass-covered as it likely always was. The burials here are not medieval; all of them date to the twentieth century, most marked by upright headstones arranged in two rows across the eastern half of the enclosure, with two further burials placed along the western wall. That a community continued to bury its dead within the footprint of the old abbey long after the religious life of the place had ended is unremarkable in an Irish context, where ruined ecclesiastical sites were used for burial well into modern times, but the two recumbent slabs, nearly swallowed by turf, introduce a small unresolved question. Their exposed upper surfaces are rough, which suggests the finished and possibly inscribed face is the one pressed into the ground. Whether they were deliberately turned or simply settled that way over time, no one has recorded.