There are no inscriptions, no carved details, nothing to identify who lies beneath. The boulders sit in silence, heavy with implication rather than information, in a field that most people would walk past without a second glance.

The graveyard itself, mapped as an irregularly shaped enclosure on the 1838 edition of the Ordnance Survey six-inch map, stretches roughly 64 metres on its northwest to southeast axis and about 53 metres across. It sits in pastureland with a turlough, a seasonal lake that fills and drains according to the fluctuating water table of the limestone karst beneath it, lying to the east. Somewhere near the centre of the enclosure stood a church, possibly medieval in origin, though little enough of it survives to say much with confidence. The graveyard's boundaries are formed by low earthen banks to the west, north, and east, while the southern edge has been built up with field-clearance material over the years, stones gathered from surrounding farmland and piled there as a matter of agricultural convenience. The whole site is heavily overgrown now. The possible children's burial ground, noted by Korff and O'Connell in 1985, was a practice with deep roots in Irish tradition; unbaptised infants and young children were often interred separately from the main consecrated ground, in liminal spaces at the edges of parishes and communities.

The site is set within working pastureland, and the overgrowth makes close inspection difficult. The limestone boulders to the south of the church footprint are the most legible feature remaining, modest and unadorned, but quietly telling.