The two northern stones are set about 1.9 metres apart, their long axes running roughly north-northeast to south-southwest. The southern pair, 7.5 metres away, stand with their own axes turned almost at right angles to those of the northern stones, a deliberate geometric opposition that gives the whole arrangement an air of careful, if now opaque, intention. One of the northern stones is broken, its upper section fallen against its base, reducing what was once a standing stone of around 1.6 metres to a much reduced stump. The southern east stone leans noticeably to the south. What survives is incomplete, and what it once meant is genuinely uncertain.

The incompleteness is itself part of the record. When the antiquarian John Windele visited in the mid-nineteenth century, he counted five stones still upright and was told by local people that there had originally been eight. That would suggest a more substantial monument, though whether it was a stone row, a multiple-stone setting, or something else entirely remains unclear. Windele's account was later documented by Grove White in the early twentieth century, preserving a tradition that the site had already been in decline for some time before anyone thought to write it down. About 100 metres to the north-northwest lies an early ecclesiastical enclosure, the kind of roughly circular boundary that once demarcated early Christian monastic or church sites, which raises the question of whether the stones and the enclosure ever had any relationship to each other, or simply ended up as neighbours across the centuries.