Field of Battle

The battleground now silent, the guns and cannons still.
All is calm and quiet below that looming hill
where once the natives gathered to stare out over space
to see what enemies might be sequestered in this place.
Their bodies claimed by grass and scrub, nature at last has won. 
Limbs vanish as their crusty bones are hollowed out by sun.
Those who come to view this place writ as a place of glory,
sense perhaps the sadder side to this whitewashed story.
Its glitter dulled, when truth is told, by images more gory.

Prompt words for The Sunday Whirl are: crusty scrub limbs vanish bones exist space glitter still hollow below sense (Image is is photo of a painting in the Little Big Horn Museum.)