It marks no legible name, carries no carved cross, no inscription, no decorative knotwork. Whoever it was made for has been entirely swallowed by time.

The slab itself is a tapered rectangle of limestone, 1.19 metres long and roughly 15 centimetres thick, narrowing from just over half a metre at the head end to 35 centimetres at the foot. What makes it technically notable, modest as that sounds, is the chamfering: the edges have been cut at an angle on all visible sides, a finishing detail that would have given the slab a slightly refined appearance, and the chamfer here is unusually steep, between 5.5 and 6 centimetres wide. Chamfering of this kind on medieval graveslabs was a mark of some craft intention, suggesting the stone was not a rough field marker but a considered funerary object, made for someone whose burial warranted a degree of care. The church it belongs to is medieval in origin, set within a graveyard that continued in use long after the building itself fell into ruin. The slab now lies recumbent, a word that in this context means simply flat and face-up, though its current position is less a choice than the result of slow collapse around it.