Airport memories

Father flew co pilot on DC eight
becoming McDonnell Douglas
in Nineteen seventy three.

Watching from the observation deck,
I was a six-year old who loved jumbo jets
that fell from cotton wool wrapped clouds
gliding down to the Manukau, near water's edge.

Finally touching terra firma
these planes skidded gently before settling down
rubber wheel wobble caressing the tarmac strip.
We all felt safer when all wheels were down.

A woman announces departures
and arrivals in her luxuriant monotone
Excited travellers carry bags of many colours
as shrill sonic sounds strike up.

I finally press my face against the terminal glass
watching steel-eyed birds with one eye then the other
pointing my finger, which is bigger than the beasts I see.
Which one does my father fly?