Sitting in the corner of the meeting room, an off-call consultant's eyelids fall. The night registrar talks animatedly and the day team joke. The consultant's patients have been discussed and his coffee hasn't kicked in. The bounce of his chin rouses him

The round passes through a medical ward; eyes look up, eyes dart around. The octogenerian's glassed, cloudy eyes search for focus, and find wanting. The narc'd lady next door sleeps soundly, eyes rolling in an opiate fog.

In clinic, eyes have fear. Why can't my GP handle this. Or eyes of frustration, "You made me wait an hour to tell me you can't work out what's wrong

In corridors, more tired eyes. Interns, fresh faced aside from the bags, snake some biscuits from the tea-trolley between patients. Jaded admin look daggers through bloodshot Monday-itis

On the kids' ward, the eyes are bright, glossy, new. Eyes working hard to focus for the first time. Others closed tight in sleep.

The labouring mother, too, has tired eyes. Drunk on birth and hormones, sapped of energy. She battles not her lids between contractions; her sweated brow furrows for another wave. Eyes roll as she dozes.

"Anxious", say the father's eyes. He sees and feels pain; and pain is seen in him

His eyes change, her eyes change too. They see new eyes, bright, lustrous, screaming eyes. They see love.

Through tired, happy eyes.